


Because I Need You (More Than Just For Tonight)

by iamthelightening



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Human, BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, Flogging, Impact Play, Kink Community, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Play Party, Porn With Plot, Safe Sane and Consensual, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 02:30:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3364394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthelightening/pseuds/iamthelightening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles rarely has the chance to return to Beacon Hills, but some things are worth making time for - and everyone knows Lydia Martin throws the best play parties. </p><p>Since he’s been away for a year, he’s missed a few things. Usually, this wouldn’t be a problem, but it suddenly sounds like all of his friends have a new favourite dom he’s never heard about before, and Stiles is feeling left out of the loop.</p><p>Who the hell is Derek Hale, and why is Lydia so convinced Stiles has to play with him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With this fic I wanted to represent a kink experience that was more like my own - though sadly no one I know has a lake house ;) This was my first Big Bang, and I had a great time with it. Thank you to the Sterek community for all your support, and the organizers for doing such a good job!
> 
> A huge, huge thank you to [MarpleJuice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Marple_Juice/pseuds/Marple_Juice) who not only made a beautiful ebook for this fic, but really went above and beyond making some gorgeous artwork as well. She was an utter joy to work with these last few months, and being able to collaborate with her was truly wonderful. Check out her [work](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3386039) and leave her some much-deserved love!
> 
> As always, I wouldn't be writing or publishing these without the dedicated beta-ing from my partner [Paradisgatan](http://paradisgatan.tumblr.com). She told me to write what I know, so this one's for her.

FRIDAY 

 

Stiles could feel the tension start to ease out of his thoughts as he drove up the wooded and winding road to Lydia’s lake house. The familiar route was comforting, and the gentle curves of the road as he drove deeper into the forest let him slip into autopilot.  For the first time in weeks he could relax, sinking into the blur of green outside the windows and the sound of The Fray spilling from the Jeep’s speakers.

He wasn’t letting himself think about the project for Mr. Davis that wasn’t finished yet, he refused to wonder whether or not Tyler would meet their deadline, and he’d left his work phone back in Los Angeles. He was taking this weekend completely for himself and wasn’t going to let anything ruin it for him.

A couple times a year Lydia hosted a three-day-long play party at her lake house.  There were never more than ten people and all of them were Stiles’s closest friends.  Occasionally one of them brought a new partner (or two), but usually it was just the few of them that he’d known for years.  Which was why weekends at Lydia’s were awesome.  Three days of good friends, good food, good conversation, and the indulgence of playing as much or as little as they wanted. Lydia’s parties were usually the only time most of them were all able to get together and, since they were held so infrequently, it meant that each time at least one member of their unofficial group had mastered something new and they would often hold a workshop or two to teach the rest of them. 

During the last play party Stiles had been able to make it to, for example, Allison had demonstrated the various uses of a Violet Wand on Isaac.  Electricity play wasn’t something Stiles had ever given more than a passing thought to, but watching Allison glide the wand over Isaac’s writhing body until he was slick with sweat and unable to speak coherently had piqued his interest enough that he’d asked her to try it out on him.

It had been fun, especially when Scott and Isaac had each taken one of Stiles’s wrists and held him down, but afterwards Stiles had been disappointed by the lack of marks the electricity left on his skin. Still, he was glad of the chance to try it out, and he wondered what new opportunities might be in store for him this trip. 

Rounding the final curve, Stiles spotted the driveway to Lydia’s and couldn’t help grinning widely as he turned the Jeep. He’d left L.A. a couple hours later than he’d intended, which meant that everyone else had probably arrived already, but Stiles would still get there in plenty of time for dinner.

Slowing down as he approached the house, Stiles drove without thinking towards his usual parking spot, and had to slam on the breaks hard when he realized at the last second that someone else had parked in his place.

In the spot usually reserved for Roscoe—everyone _knew_ that was Stiles’s spot—there was a sleek-looking black sports car that gleamed in the light spilling from the windows of the house.  Stiles scowled at it, his good mood souring.

Earlier this year, the weekend Stiles had been stuck frantically pulling together a last-minute proposal for Mr. Davis and couldn’t make it to Lydia’s party, there had been a new addition to the group—some guy named Derek who Jackson and Lydia had met and introduced to the rest of them. Apparently he was hot shit, because for weeks after the party Scott hadn’t been able to stop gushing about the flogging technique Derek had shown him.  Since then, basically every time he talked to one of his friends it was “Derek this” and “Derek that”.  It wasn’t enough that they invited him out to the lake house, but apparently they’d all been hanging out regularly, going to movies and throwing dinner parties.  He’d even taken Boyd and Scott and Isaac camping out on the Preserve. 

_Stiles_ liked camping, too, but the last time he’d suggested it Boyd had laughed in his face and Isaac had refused point blank.  And then apparently when Derek brought it up everyone fell over themselves to pitch the tent.

Muttering something very unflattering about men who needed to compensate with expensive cars under his breath, Stiles reversed the Jeep and pulled into the only parking spot left—right under a sickly-looking pine tree, which meant that by the end of the weekend Roscoe would be covered in sticky sap and old needles. 

Stepping out of the Jeep, Stiles grabbed his bag and a couple bottles of wine from the backseat and made his way up to the front door.  He didn’t bother to knock, just shouldered it open and headed in. 

“Stiles!”  Scott came around the corner and swept Stiles up in a bear hug. Stiles returned the hug enthusiastically, despite having his hands full.  “Glad you could make it this time, man!”

“Me, too,” Stiles gave Scott one last squeeze and stepped back.  “Everyone else here?”

“Yeah, you’re the last to arrive.  Here,” Scott grabbed the bottles of wine out of Stiles’s hands.  “I’ll take these into the kitchen if you want to dump your bag.  You’re in your usual room.”  He nodded towards the stairway.

“Great, thanks.”  Stiles clapped Scott on the shoulder with his free hand and headed up the stairs, shaking off his superstitious frustration as his earlier enthusiasm returned.  Just because someone else had parked in his space, that didn’t actually mean the entire weekend was going to suck—and who knew, maybe this guy Derek was really as great as everyone seemed to think. 

Dropping his bag onto the edge of his bed, Stiles allowed himself a moment to stretch, loosening the muscles that had stiffened up during the drive.  He pulled off the t-shirt he was wearing and tossed it on top of his bag before going to the bathroom to wash up. 

With his face freshly scrubbed, he rummaged in his bag until he found a new shirt.  The weekend tended to be pretty casual, though no one was ever discouraged from bringing out their fetish wear if they wanted, but everyone usually dressed up a bit for dinner on Friday night.  It was like a family tradition at this point.  Stiles shook out the white button-up he’d packed, hoping it wouldn’t look too wrinkly after spending a couple hours in a duffle bag, and slid it on.

Back downstairs, he headed straight for the living room on a bet that everyone would be enjoying a drink or two before dinner.

“Hey, Stiles,” Boyd greeted Stiles in his usual reserved manner, lifting his glass of scotch in acknowledgement. Stiles grinned as Erica jumped up from the couch beside him and bestowed a smacking kiss on Stiles’s lips, leaving behind a red smear of lipstick that Stiles rubbed at with his thumb even as Allison wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and nuzzled against the back of his neck. 

“Good to see you,” she murmured before pulling back. “Scott’s missed you.”

“I know,” Stiles winced.  “I meant to make it back for his birthday, I swear, but work…”

“Hey!”  Lydia’s voice was sharp and scolding from across the room.  “No work talk, you know the rules.”

“Sorry, babe,” he winked, crossing the room to give her a peck on the cheek. 

“And if you call me that again I’ll have your balls for breakfast,” Lydia said sweetly, smiling up at him.  “Jackson,” she called, glancing over to the hallway that led to the kitchen, “Come get Stiles a drink.  He looks like he could use one.”

“That bad, huh?”  Stiles dropped down to the chair beside Lydia’s, resisting the urge to run a self-conscious hand through his hair. 

“You just look like you need a good night’s sleep. But don’t worry about that,” she patted his knee.  “We’ll fix you right up.”

Jackson emerged from the hallway wearing a slim black apron over his dress slacks and a light blue shirt.  He passed Stiles a glass of wine and slid a plate of brie and crackers onto the coffee table. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said.  Jackson, as usual, ignored him, heading back into the kitchen. Jackson and Lydia’s relationship fascinated Stiles. Jackson was one of the most arrogant and self-centred people Stiles had ever met—on a good day, the nicest thing you could say about him was that he was “only kind of a dick”.  But when it came to Lydia, Jackson was a completely different person. He worshiped the ground she walked on. He would, and did, do anything she asked of him.  Not that Lydia usually bothered to ask—she ordered, and Jackson hurried to oblige with a smile on his face.  The guy was never happier than when kept on Lydia’s extremely tight leash.

To be fair, it was a _nice_ leash, and Jackson wore the collar with the same amount of cocky pride that some guys wore a platinum Rolex, but Stiles didn’t think he’d ever be able to commit to the kind of service Lydia demanded.  He knew for a fact that if Jackson was lucky he was allowed one orgasm every other month.  That was only six a _year_.

So yeah, no thanks.  Stiles liked orgasms.  Liked them a lot.  And hey, he understood that other people got off in different ways and denial seemed to be Jackson’s, but nothing had killed his all-encompassing crush on Lydia faster than learning what she wanted from her partners. 

Well, that and she’d shut him down on no uncertain terms. 

Turning his attention back to his glass of wine, Stiles raised it to his lips and took a swallow, giving an appreciative hum as the peppery syrah hit his tongue.  “Glad to see you opened up the good stuff.”

“Derek brought it.”  The gleam in Lydia’s eyes had Stiles narrowing his.  

“Uh-huh,” Stiles made a noncommittal noise and took another sip to avoid having to say anything else. 

“You’re going to like him.”

“Don’t push it, Lydia.”

“Please,” Lydia leaned in, her hand on his knee and her breasts brushing his arm, “You love it when I push.”

It was true, but Stiles was saved from answering when two more people entered: Isaac, followed by a man who could only be the aforementioned Derek.  Derek was tall, dark, and handsome—of course—and he was wearing a pair of black slacks and a dark purple collared shirt, both of which appeared to have been painted on because he filled them out in all the right places.

“Derek, you have to meet Stiles.”  And then Lydia was pulling Stiles up from his seat and he had only half a second to put his wine glass down on the table before he was being hauled across the room.

 “Uh, hey,” Stiles held his hand out awkwardly and after a beat Derek’s fingers wrapped around his in a firm, warm grip.  This close, Stiles could see that Derek’s eyes were surprisingly light, a pale colour that might have been green, or maybe grey, made all the more startling by their frame of thick eyebrows and dark lashes.

“Hello.”  Derek’s voice, like his eyes, was not what Stiles had been expecting.  It wasn’t as deep as the muscles and the beard implied, but soft and steady.

Stiles dropped his hand as Derek released it, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans.  There was a beat of silence, tension mounting as Stiles realized that the rest of the room was watching their exchange.  Barely holding back a sigh of annoyance, Stiles went with his default tension breaker, bad jokes, and flashed a cheeky grin. “So, I hear you’re into kinky sex?”

Derek raised a single eyebrow, looking past Stiles to Lydia with his expression conveying an unspoken ‘ _Really?’_ ,before turning his attention back to Stiles.  “BDSM isn’t just about sex.  Not for me,” he said, with disapproval heavy in his tone.

Stiles blinked, taken aback.  He hadn’t meant to offend the guy—it was just a _joke_. Hell, he even felt the same way. He opened his mouth to explain, but Derek was already brushing past him to join Boyd and Erica on the couch. Isaac met Stiles’s eyes and gave a slight shrug before moving to sit at the foot of Allison’s loveseat.

Closing his mouth with a snap, Stiles turned on his heel and went back into his earlier chair, picking up the glass of wine from the table and bringing it to his lips to hide his scowl.  He didn’t appreciate being dismissed, and he didn’t appreciate the implication that he didn’t know as much about kink as Derek, either. 

“Real nice guy,” Stiles muttered to Lydia when she returned to her seat beside him.  “I can see why you think I’d like him—great sense of humour.”

“It just takes him a bit to warm up,” Lydia insisted. “Give him some time.”

“Right,” Stiles scoffed, watching Derek accept a glass of the wine from Jackson without even a nod of thanks.  “How long was the last ice age?  Cause I’m pretty sure I only have a life expectancy of—”

Lydia cut him off with a roll of her eyes.

 

After dinner, Boyd and Allison helped clear away the dishes while the rest of them made their way back into the living room. Jackson came around with coffee and Stiles accepted a cup gratefully.  With the big meal, the brandied pears for dessert, and the few glasses of wine he’d had throughout he was dangerously close to dozing off. Deciding he’d be much better off standing than sitting in case he did just that, Stiles crossed the room to where Scott stood looking out the large window at the lake beyond.

“Hey,” Stiles bumped shoulders with his best friend, who lifted his own cup in a salute.  “You look good, man.  Happy.”

Scott’s eyes went soft as he glanced past Stiles to where Allison had come back into the room and sat curled around Isaac on the same loveseat as earlier, her fingers combing gently through his hair. “I am,” he said simply, looking back at Stiles.  “It works. _We_ work.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, attempting to hide the grin that split his face.  “They asked me to move in.”

“Dude!”  Stiles punched Scott’s arm, his own grin nearly as wide as Scott’s. “That’s awesome.”

“Yeah,” Scott beamed.  “It is.”

Stiles was about to ask how soon Scott could get out of his lease when Lydia cleared her throat and rose from her chair to stand in front of the fire place, waiting for the conversation in the room to die down before she started speaking.  “It’s great that so many of us have been able to make it this weekend, and I know we’re all looking forward to seeing what Boyd has to share with us later on.” On the couch Erica stretched out, long and languid like a cat, and winked at Stiles when he caught her eye. “But first,” Lydia continued, “We’re going to go over the house rules for the weekend.

“All parties must receive an enthusiastic yes before engaging in any play.  We will continue to use ‘traffic light’ safe words to avoid any confusion: ‘green’ is go, ‘yellow’ means slow down, and ‘red’ means an immediate halt to any play or scene.  If the person or persons bottoming are restrained or gagged then the non-verbal safe words are as follows: a two-finger tap,” Lydia demonstrated by tapping the two fingers of her right hand against her left arm, “Or,” she held out her hand and Jackson handed her an expensive looking silk handkerchief that she balled up in her fist and then dropped, “This.  Does everyone understand?”

She received a chorus of ‘yes’ and with a satisfied nod continued on.  “There are first aid kits located in the medicine cabinet of every bathroom. Gloves, condoms, and dental dams—both latex and non-latex—as well as lube, can be found…”

The spiel was the same every year and Stiles let his attention wander.  Like him and Scott, the new guy had chosen to remain standing and was leaning against the door jam with a tiny cup of espresso, watching Lydia with careful attention.  Probably only the second time _he’s_ ever heard the speech, Stiles thought sourly. Boyd sat, still and solid, on the couch while Erica drummed her fingers against her thigh, stopping only when Boyd closed his hand over hers. 

Shifting on his feet, Stiles downed the rest of his coffee and glanced around for a place to put the empty cup. 

“…the white room upstairs can be reserved for private play at any point over the weekend, and everyone’s bedroom is considered their own space so you may not enter without permission.  For those of us who don’t mind or prefer an audience,” Lydia looked pointedly at Erica, “the den and the library are open for public…”

Stiles spotted a small end table against the wall beside the doorway and quietly made his way towards it, setting the cup down with a clink.  Derek glanced over at the sound, but returned his attention back to Lydia before Stiles could mouth a ‘sorry’ at him.  Shrugging, Stiles leaned against the wall and reached into the pocket of his jeans to pull out his phone to check the time.

“…the use of cameras or other recording devises is prohibited…”

He had a new email from Mr. Davis, on his personal account no less, and with a sigh Stiles tapped to see what was so urgent when a hand clamped down over his wrist. 

“Put it away,” Derek’s voice was as firm and unyielding as his grip, though barely above a whisper.  “And pay attention.”

Speechless, Stiles tried to yank his arm free, but Derek’s fingers just tightened.  For a moment Stiles’s outrage was eclipsed by a hot spark of desire at the strength in Derek’s grip. 

 

 

“Have some respect for the rest of us.” Derek dropped Stiles’s wrist and watched pointedly until, now seething, Stiles slid his phone back into his pocket.

“One last thing,” Lydia was saying, “There will be absolutely no fire play this weekend.  So.  Any questions?”

Stiles had a couple.  Like, who the fuck did this guy think he was and how soon could they get rid of him?  The worst part, he acknowledged grudgingly, was that he felt properly scolded. He knew it had been rude to take out his phone, but come on!  He’d heard everything before—okay, not the fire play thing, that was new—but it wasn’t like he had been distracting anyone else. 

Shamefaced and more irritated than the situation probably merited, Stiles made his way back towards Scott, shaking his head at his friend’s questioning look.  Scott, unlike Stiles, had obviously been paying attention to Lydia and hadn’t noticed Derek and Stiles’s exchange.  Stiles wasn’t going to fill him in. 

 

Derek glanced out the corner of his eye at Stiles. They were spread out through Lydia’s basement, the room converted into a large and comfortable den with various chairs and couches strewn throughout, all of which had been turned to face the far wall where Boyd was in the process of suspending Erica in an elaborate rope harness.  Boyd was good teacher—his instructions clear and concise as the knots became more complex. Scott seemed particularly intrigued, and Boyd was patient as always as Scott peppered him with questions, but never stopped his frequent check-ins with Erica.  It was an excellent demo, and Derek wished he was better able to focus on it.

Unfortunately, again and again, he found his eyes drawn to the slender man sprawled out over one of Lydia’s couches. They hadn’t gotten off to a good start and Derek was frustrated.  It wasn’t that he agreed with Lydia’s assessment that they would be well-matched—Derek couldn’t say one way or another whether he and Stiles were compatible, not without having a chance to play with the younger man—but he’d heard so much about Stiles over the last year and knew how important he was to the rest of Derek’s new group of friends.  He wanted to like Stiles and wanted Stiles to like him.

At the rate the two of them were going, though, it didn’t look like there was much hope for that. 

Derek hadn’t meant to come off as gruff or humourless, but Stiles’s blasé attitude had thrown him—and then infuriated him, when instead of giving Lydia, and the rules, the attention they deserved, Stiles had been _texting_. Derek knew he’d come off as a stick in the mud, had probably reacted more aggressively than the situation called for, but he’d been shocked by Stiles’s casual disrespect.  Codes of conduct, especially within the BDSM community, were hugely important.  There was a reason that so many play parties began with a run-down of the rules—that way no one could plead ignorance later for breaking any of them.

From everything he’d heard about Stiles, Derek hadn’t expected someone so careless.  The way the rest of the group spoke about him, with fondness and respect, he’d pictured someone like Scott—and instead he’d been presented with someone who acted more like Jackson. 

And yet, Derek’s mind couldn’t stop playing over the way Stiles’s slender wrist had felt in his hand.  The way his pulse had raced when Derek had tightened his fingers, and how Derek’s had sped up in response.  _That_ had been interesting.  After, when Stiles had moved back towards Scott, absently rubbing at his wrist, Derek couldn’t help but want to do it again. To press down until he’d left a circle of bruises around that pale skin so that even when he’d let go, days later, Stiles wouldn’t be able to look down at his arm without being reminded of Derek’s touch. 

Maybe Lydia had been on to something, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

SATURDAY

 

Stiles woke on Saturday morning buzzing with energy. He’d slept well the night before, better than he had in months, and waking up well-rested put a bounce in his step as he showered and dressed before heading down the stairs to see what was for breakfast. 

“You’re late,” Jackson announced, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder and turning to glare at Stiles.  “Everyone else has already eaten.”

“I’m not _that_ late.”  Stiles crossed the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, hoping to see a plate of something he could stick in the microwave. “And Lydia said I could use more sleep—so even if I were really late—which I’m not—I’d be really late with permission.”  He pulled his head out of the fridge and sent a winsome smile in Jackson’s direction. “Come on, you’re saying she didn’t tell you to save me a plate?”

Jackson widened his eyes in an apology so insincere that Stiles could feel his own narrow.  “Gee, doesn’t look like it.”

“Man, don’t make me beg.”  Stiles wouldn’t.  Probably. 

Jackson barked out a laugh, the first genuine emotion he’d displayed towards Stiles that weekend.  “I’ve heard you beg—trust me, it leaves something to be desired.”

“Just because you’re the king of ‘oh please, Mistress, _please_ let me—’”

“You wish someone could make you beg like I can beg.” Jackson smirked, and Stiles rolled his eyes, trying not to be actually jealous of Jackson.  _Jackson_.  Of the zero orgasms.

“Ug.  Fine, you win.  I’m sorry I was late.” Stiles let his shoulders fall dejectedly.  “You’ve got to have some cereal around here, right?”  He looked around hopefully.

Jackson heaved out a very put-upon sigh. “There’s some French toast sitting in the oven for you, and whipped cream and strawberries in the back of the fridge.”

Stiles knew Jackson had hid them, the bastard.

“But I’m not serving you, so get it yourself.” With a sniff Jackson turned back to the sink and continued drying the dishes.

Trying not to act too pleased with himself, Stiles put the still-warm toast on a plate and added a generous helping of whipped cream and strawberries.  He poured himself a large glass of orange juice and carefully balancing both, wandered out of the kitchen to see where everyone else had got to. 

He had slept later than he’d intended—it was already after 11am and Stiles tried not to be too disappointed that he’d missed so much of the morning already.  It wasn’t that they usually started at the crack of dawn or anything, but since they did only have three days at Lydia’s Stiles hated to miss half of one sleeping. Still, he felt great, and he couldn’t help beaming around his mouthful of breakfast as he headed towards the library where he could hear the quiet murmur of voices. 

The door was eased part-way shut, but not closed, and since Lydia had confirmed last night that the library was once again open for public play, Stiles had no qualms about sliding through with his breakfast. He was careful to make as little noise as possible, and eased the door back almost-closed behind him, not wanting to do anything to interrupt the conversation. 

He was so focused on not bumping into the various, clearly expensive, pieces of furniture, and keeping his plate and cup balanced, that it wasn’t until Stiles had cautiously lowered his butt into a chair and set the dishes down on the side table that he realized with a jolt who else was in the room. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—maybe Boyd and Erica, or Allison and Scott.  But not Lydia and Derek.  And especially not with Isaac kneeling shirtless at the foot of Derek’s chair.

“Good morning, Stiles,” Lydia said cheerfully.

“Morning,” Stiles managed, reaching for his plate and trying not to stare at the way Derek’s fingers were tangled casually in Isaac’s curls. 

Isaac’s eyes were heavy-lidded but open, though Stiles didn’t think Isaac was actually seeing anything.  Not with the way his chest moved with deep, sleep-slow breaths and the lassitude of his posture.  If it weren’t for Derek’s hand in his hair, Stiles thought Isaac might just slide dreamily onto the floor. 

It wasn’t that it was unusual for various members of the group to play, or have sex with, different members than their partners during the course of the weekend.  To be honest, monogamy tended to be the odd-man out during weekends at Lydia’s. But for some reason the sight of Isaac blissed out at Derek’s feet rubbed Stiles the wrong way, and when Derek’s fingers tightened, tugging lazily at Isaac’s head so that the slender man shifted and suddenly Stiles could see the raised lines of red flesh criss-crossing Isaac’s back, Stiles had to fight back a frown.

Isaac was Scott’s.  And Allison’s.  He wasn’t Derek’s.  Stiles dropped his gaze, knowing he was unable to hide the heat of frustration in his eyes, and focused on cutting into the thick slice of French toast.  It wasn’t that he’d never seen Isaac play with anyone else, because he had.  For fuck’s sake, he and Isaac had fooled around on more than one occasion, and it had been fun, and Stiles would probably do it again, but… but this was _different_. Stiles had never seen Isaac look so sated—so freaking peaceful—with anyone other than Allison and Scott.

What was it about this Derek guy?  Stiles jabbed angrily at a piece of toast and jammed it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing without even tasting the bread.

“Did you sleep well?”  Derek’s voice yanked Stiles out of his own head, and he jerked his eyes up with another forkful of breakfast half-way into his mouth. Derek’s expression was mild, conveying the same polite interest you would have when asking a co-worker or a new acquaintance if they’d packed an umbrella because, golly, didn’t it look like rain?

Stiles swallowed, the food a dry lump in his throat, before answering.  “Yeah, I—yeah. It was fine.”

Lydia shot him a look out of the corner of her eye and Stiles studiously ignored her.  “You?” he asked Derek.  Not that he cared.  Because he didn’t, obviously.  Whether or not a stranger had a good sleep at Lydia’s was literally the least of Stiles’s concerns.  Or it should have been.  And yet, somehow, he fiercely hoped Derek hadn’t.  Stiles knew he was being petty, but it was hard to put his finger on why.

“I always sleep well here.”  Derek looked at Lydia and smiled and for the second time in a matter of minutes Stiles found himself choking on his breakfast. He hadn’t realized Derek’s face could do anything but look stern and serious and mildly disapproving—the bright flash of teeth and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners drove the breath out of Stiles’s lungs and it took him a second or two of coughing before he could draw air back into them.

The noise pulled Isaac out of his trance and he shifted on the hardwood floor, making a soft wince as he eased back on his heels to try and move his weight back from the points of his knees. Stiles had done his own fair share of kneeling on Lydia’s library floor to know that the pressure was its own form of torture, and he suppressed an echoing wince of sympathy.

Before Isaac could get comfortable though, Derek had fisted his hand in Isaac’s hair and pulled him back into his previous position, the smile gone from his face and replaced with a look of thunderous displeasure. 

“Did I say you could move?” Derek demanded, the question not a question at all.

Isaac’s breath came shallow now, his hands clenching reflexively against his thighs.  “No,” he croaked.

“‘No’?” there was a dangerous edge to Derek’s voice and it slid like a razor against Stiles’s skin.  He could feel his own heartbeat stutter involuntarily and had to bite into his bottom lip to stop his mouth from opening slack.

“No, sir,” Isaac corrected, blue eyes unfocusing when Derek dragged his hand down from Isaac’s hair to wrap around the nape of Isaac’s neck.    

_Sir_?  Seriously?  Stiles pulled a face and let his attention fall back to his plate, not even bothering to look up when Isaac gave a soft whine of pain. It figured that Derek was one of those doms who needed to be called ‘sir’ or ‘master’ or something totally ludicrous like ‘dark lord of vengeful pain’.  Stiles had never understood the attraction.  That’s not to say he hadn’t had his fair share of fantasies about someone in uniform insisting he use their formal title… but that was different.  That was someone already in a position of authority, demanding the respect their position granted them.  Or whatever. It wasn’t the same thing as some asshole with a crop deciding he was now My Lord or some bullshit.

Real authority, Stiles figured, didn’t need to dress itself up.  Role play just never had been and never would be his thing.

“It’s unfortunate Danny couldn’t make it,” Lydia commented to Stiles as he was mopping up the last of the whipped cream with his final bite of toast. 

Stiles shrugged, popping the toast in his mouth and this time swallowing before answering.  “Yeah, but the flight back from Hawaii’s a bitch.” He and Danny usually found themselves paired up over the weekend, the two of them single more often than not. They’d even dated, briefly, but found out that just because they were all sorts of compatible in the bedroom (or the dungeon) that did not mean that they were as well-matched in the rest of their lives.  The realization had been mutual though, and it had allowed them to remain friends and play partners slash fuck buddies after. 

“Do you know who you’ll play with instead?” Lydia continued, her face a picture of earnest innocence like they both didn’t know exactly what she was angling towards.

“Why, are you offering?” Stiles wiggled his eyebrows. “You might not be able to settle for Jackson after getting a taste of _this_.”  He reached down and plucked a strawberry off his plate with his fingers, sinking his teeth slowly into the red flesh and taking a long, sucking bite. 

Lydia laughed, but Stiles didn’t miss the way her cheeks flushed.  Smirking, he swallowed the piece of fruit and glanced over to see Derek watching their exchange. Derek’s hand was back in Isaac’s hair, stroking absently, but his focus was wholly on Stiles.

Stiles knew he shouldn’t tease, not when he had zero intentions of letting things go any farther, but he couldn’t help locking eyes with the dom.  He brought the rest of the berry to his lips, tongue darting out to lick before he pressed it into his mouth.  Heat pooled in his belly as Derek’s eyes darkened.  Stiles’s smirk widened. 

With effort Stiles pulled his focus back to Lydia, reminding himself that wasn’t impressed by Derek and certainly wasn’t trying to make Derek impressed by him.  “Scott and I have got some time blocked off this evening,” he said in answer to her question, licking the red stain of strawberry from his fingers. “He wants to play around with some rope, and I just want to play around.”  He winked.

What Stiles would really like was a full scene—not just a half an hour here or there with someone trying out something new or demonstrating the effectiveness of ball gags.  He wanted to be in the headspace Isaac was in now—the hum of focused/not focused where everything was sharply intense but still blurred around the edges and the only thing that mattered was what he was going to feel next.  

Unfortunately, with Danny back at his island paradise and everyone else relatively paired up, Stiles didn’t see that happening. It wasn’t that he couldn’t easily join in with anyone if he asked, they’d all done so before and he was sure he’d be welcome, but it wouldn’t be quite the same.  Stiles wanted to be the sole focus and to have sole focus.  He was greedy like that.

“I’m going to wax Jackson this afternoon. You should come watch.” Lydia smiled brightly, her invitation extending to Derek as well.

“I thought Jackson didn’t like wax play,” Derek commented, a sudden tension in his voice even as his fingers trailed idly down from Isaac’s hairline to press against the welts on his back.  Isaac gave a sharp hiss of pain and swayed back into the touch.

“I don’t mean the kind with candles,” Lydia clarified. “Candles fall under the ‘no fire play’ rule.”

Derek nodded, like it had simply been a matter of interest, but as he settled back into his armchair his posture was more relaxed.

“Wait—what kind of wax play are you talking about?” Stiles felt like he had missed something, but he was a lot more interested in what new torture Lydia had devised for Jackson.  Stiles was no sadist, but he couldn’t deny the pleasure he got from watching Lydia break the cocky bastard down. 

“When I’m done, Jackson won’t have a strand of hair below his eyelashes.”  Lydia fluttered hers disarmingly and Stiles broke out into a laugh, imagining the look on Jackson’s face when he learned of Lydia’s plan. 

“Oh, I’m _so_ there.”

 

“Now, why,” Allison joined Stiles on his couch in the den, snuggling close so she could not-quite whisper in his ear, “Haven’t you taken the opportunity to play with Derek yet?”

Stiles turned from where he’d been watching Lydia gleefully yank a strip of wax off of Jackson’s twitching body to glare at Allison. “Just because he’s dominant and I’m submissive doesn’t mean we have to hook up.  You can’t just toss us together and assume we’re gonna—”

“Hey, hey,” she held her hands up in surrender. “No one’s saying that, Stiles. Calm down.”

Stiles let out a huff of breath and tried to turn his attention back to Jackson and Lydia, but he could feel Allison watching him and so with a quiet groan he stood up, beckoning for her to follow, and made his way out of the room. 

He climbed the stairs in silence, waiting until they’d made their way into the living room before dropping down grumpily on a foot stool.  “All I wanted,” he began “Was to have a nice relaxing weekend at Lydia’s, and maybe come away with some interesting bruises and a few good nights’ sleep.  Is that too much to ask?” 

“No one’s suggesting any more than that,” Allison retorted. 

“Then stop asking about Derek.”

Allison snorted a laugh.  “I didn’t ask about him—I asked about _you_.”

“You asked—”

“Why _you_ haven’t tried him out. I know what you’re looking for, Stiles.  We all do. And we think Derek might be it.”

“Oh, my god,” Stiles dropped his head into his hands. “Did you seriously recruit him into this so you could set me up?  Don’t you think that sounds completely insane?”

“Trust me, there was no recruiting necessary. Derek was a fully-fledged member of the kink community all on his own before we met him—and really, do you think we would have invited him out for the weekend if we didn’t like him? If we didn’t enjoy his company? You didn’t even make it out last year, and somehow we had a good time.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Stiles grumbled, trying not to feel too jealous that he’d missed out.  “And I’m glad you guys got to make a new friend.” Well, no, he wasn’t, but he should be.  “I just have no idea why you think he’d be my type.”

Allison just raised an eyebrow.

“He’s not,” Stiles insisted.  “He’s exactly the _opposite_ of my type. He’s grumpy, for one. And serious.  Like, oh my god, does he even know how to smile?” Except Stiles knew he did, because he’d had that flash of it earlier in the library when Derek had smiled at Lydia and it had been—it had been nothing, he reminded himself.  Just a smile.  So what if it had made Derek look about a bazillion times more attractive?  Just because someone smiled didn’t mean they had a sense of humour.  And that was something Derek definitely didn’t have because Stiles was a funny guy, okay?  And all through dinner last night Derek hadn’t laughed at _one_ of Stiles’s jokes.  Therefore a sense of humour was absolutely not something Derek-the-wonder-dom possessed. “And,” Stiles continued, trying to hang onto the thread of his outrage, “He made Isaac call him ‘ _sir_ ’!” Stiles flung his hands up. “What even is that? Isaac doesn’t call you ‘sir’.”

“Well, no,” Allison conceded, “He wouldn’t.”

Stiles gave her a flat look.  “You know what I mean.  You’re not ‘ma’am’ or ‘mistress’ and Scott isn’t anything like that either, not to Isaac.  So how come Derek is?”  He didn’t wait for Allison to answer.  “He’s like every bad dom cliché.  I hate those guys.  They can’t have fun—everything is too formal and too serious and they think the only way to show they’re in charge is to have a stick up their ass so big that—”

“Yeah, I get it,” Allison cut him off with an amused shake of her head.  “You’ve sure got Derek figured out after being in the same room with him for, what, a couple hours?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Stiles said, though it lacked heat.

“You fuck off.”

“You first.”

“Sweetheart, I _always_ come first.”

“Don’t I know it.”  They grinned at each other, and Stiles leaned forward so that he could grab Allison’s hand in his.  “Scott said you asked him to move in?”

“Isaac and I did, yes.”  Allison squeezed his hand.  “Should we have asked your blessing first?”

Stiles laughed.  “You know you have it.  You guys are great together.  I don’t know how—I mean, my last relationship lasted about as long as Jackson does when Lydia lets him get off—but the three of you have something good.”

Allison’s face softened.  “You know we just want the same for you, right? I’m sorry if you feel like we’re pushing Derek at you.  It wasn’t that calculated, honestly.  It just seems like… the two of you might balance each other out. But I’ll tell everyone to back off if you’re sure there’s nothing there.”

“No, I…” Stiles bit his lip, not realizing he’d spoken until too late.  Allison had the same way of disarming him as Scott did.  Probably why the two of them got along so well, and probably why Isaac was stupid in love with the pair of them.  It was impossible not to want to be a better, more honest person when one of them was staring at you with their dark eyes so big and earnest. Cheaters.  “Maybe tomorrow, or something.”

Allison beamed and Stiles blushed, unable to help the warm glow in his chest at having pleased her.  God, he was such a sucker.  Those dimples of hers should be illegal. 

 

“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you hadn’t discovered, y’know, this?” Scott gestured back to the lake house from where they could see it at the bottom of the hill.

“Lydia’s cabin?” Derek asked wryly.

“No, you idiot,” Scott rolled his eyes, oblivious to Derek’s sarcasm.  “Like, the whole kink thing.  I thought I was weird, like, fucked in the head.  Thank god I had Stiles,” he grinned, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. “He’s always so on top of stuff.” Scott paused for a moment, snickered, and then continued.  “I never said a word to him.  Not about any of it.  I mean, he was my best friend and I knew I _could_ tell him, but then it’d be too real.” He looked down at Derek who’d settled himself on a log, his own hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. 

“He’s the one who came to me about it. Just casually, you know, when we were hanging out at his place and his dad was working late and we were, well,” Scott flushed.  “We were wrestling, even though we were like seventeen and kind of too old to roughhouse and shit.  But we never stopped.  We both liked it…” he trailed off, awkward.  “I guess it’s obvious enough now.  And it was obvious to _him_ , but I never admitted it.  But then,” and Scott smiled at the memory, clearly too amused to keep feeling ashamed.  “I had him pinned, right?  I always got him pinned.  And we were out of breath and panting and he’s staring up at me with his face all red and sweaty and just says ‘I like this’, and I’m too busy trying to pretend like it’s just kid stuff and there was nothing in it for me, and he goes ‘No, I _really_ like this’.  So I’m freaking out because I like it too and what does that mean?  And because he’s Stiles and because he just _knows_ he sits up and starts telling me about all this research he’d been doing and about how he found these websites and how it’s something a lot of people are into, and because I’m his best friend he wanted me to know.  Obviously though, like obvious _now_ , he wasn’t freaked out about it at all—he was just trying to let me know that it was okay. That I wasn’t some screwed up pervert.”  Scott blew out a breath and sat down beside Derek, leaning close enough that Derek could feel the companionable warmth of him through the layers of clothing between them. At the time Scott had thought Stiles must be some kind of psychic to have figured out that Scott was into BDSM just because he liked wrestling a little too much, but years later Stiles had confessed he’d actually found Scott’s porn.  Not as good a story that way, but still—Stiles could have just ignored it, but Scott was glad he hadn’t. 

“He comes off as all jokes, you know? But there isn’t anyone who’s as thoughtful as him.  He sees people, like really _sees_ them.”  Scott scuffed his shoe through the dead leaves on the forest floor. “He’s my best friend in the entire world and I just want him to have what I have, with Allison and Isaac.”

Derek shifted, uncomfortable with the implication. “I just met the guy—don’t you—all of you—think it’s a bit pre-emptive to throw us together with that kind of pressure?”

“What?”  Scott turned to him, honest bewilderment in his eyes.  “What are you talking about?”

Derek frowned.  “Lydia, and Allison, and Erica.  They won’t stop trying to set us up.”

“Who—you and Stiles?”  Incredulity sent Scott’s voice up a couple octaves, and after a second he doubled over with laughter.  “Seriously?”

“It’s not funny,” Derek insisted, scowling in annoyance when Scott only laughed harder. 

“It kind of is, man.  I mean, I don’t know two people who are more…” Scott trailed off again, forehead creasing as he considered it.  “Actually, no, I could kind of see that.  You guys are different, like, really different, but I think, like, good different?  The right kind of different,” he clarified after a moment of staring earnestly at Derek.  “They might be on to something.”

“Scott.”

“Dude, I’m not saying you should start sending out wedding invitations.  But like… you could fit.”

“We’re not going to fit.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He doesn’t even like me.”  

Scott scoffed.  “You should have seen how much he hated Allison when he first met her.  And now they’re like, super BFFs.”

“No one could hate Allison.”

“Stiles could.  He did.  But it didn’t last long.”  Scott grinned like this was just another wonderful aspect of Stiles’s personality. “I think you should give it a shot.”

Derek groaned.  “Stop forcing it.  Nothing is ever going to happen with the whole lot of you throwing us together.”

“I haven’t thrown anyone.  I’m totally blameless.  You’re the one who brought up how perfect you and Stiles are together.”

“What?  No, I didn’t.”

“You did.  I was talking about _me_ and Stiles and then you went and made it all about yourself.”  Scott raised an eyebrow and Derek had to look away, irritated because damn if Scott wasn’t right.  

“Come on,” Derek rose to his feet, voice gruff. “It’s almost dinner. We’d better head back.”

 

As they headed into the dining room Stiles hesitated, chewing on his lip.  He was supposed to sit beside Scott, because he always sat beside Scott, but… he’d been sitting beside Scott for years now, and maybe Scott wanted to sit between Allison and Isaac, and there was a spare seat on the end beside Derek and—fuck it.  Stiles mentally threw his hands up before making his way around the table to slide in beside the older man, who couldn’t quite hide his look of surprise.

“You mind?” Stiles asked, butt hovering over the seat of the chair.

Derek shook his head.  “No, go ahead.”

“Thanks.”  Stiles dropped down and tried to tell himself that it wasn’t really as awkward as it felt.  He was the king of small talk, after all.  Everyone knew he was the guy who chatted up strangers and made friends by accident on the subway or the sidewalk.  He could handle supper sitting beside Derek. And he had told Allison he would try to get along with the new guy.  This way, if it all blew up in Stiles’s face, no one could say he hadn’t made an effort.

But no bad jokes, he reminded himself. Derek clearly didn’t understand how ‘funny’ worked, so Stiles would be on his best and most serious behaviour. He could totally do that. It’d be like a game. A fun game where no laughter or sarcasm was allowed. 

…Yeah it was going to be a long meal. Stifling a sigh he turned to Derek and plastered his most disarming, friendly smile over his face as Jackson came around with the first course.

“Isaac mentioned that you’re actually from Beacon Hills, originally?”

Derek was mid-way through a sip of wine, but unlike Stiles earlier that morning he chose to swallow before answering. “Yes.  I was born here.”

Stiles waited for Derek to elaborate, but the other man remained silent.  Alright, well, Stiles had done more with less.  Probably.  At some point. 

“Do you have much family in—”

“Lydia said your father is the Sheriff?”

Or not.  “Yeah, good ol’ Sheriff Stilinski.”

“He’s a good man.”  Derek met Stiles’s eyes, and Stiles had to remind himself that staring was still staring even if you were trying to figure out exactly what shade fell between green and grey, and whether it had an entirely different name if there were flecks of gold in the depths.  Had anyone even come up with a name for eyes that colour? If Stiles was the first to discover it did that mean he got to name it?

“Uh,” he realized after a moment that the silence had stretched on, and all around them the rest of the table was chatting loudly.  “Yes. Yes he is.  What did he do, help you out with a couple parking tickets?”  Stiles shook his head, bemused.  “He’s always a sucker for a pretty face.  Though,” he frowned.  “Usually they’re female, but hey, it’s never too late to come to terms with non-normative sexuality, amirite?” He tried a grin, but there was no answering one from Derek, and Stiles wanted to crawl under the table and out of the room.  Maybe out of the house. Maybe he could crawl all the way back to the Jeep and then drive to the airport and just pretend this weekend had never happened. 

“So,” he continued hurriedly, not wanting there to be another awkward silence between them, “Speaking of non-normative sexualities and what not—how’d you get into the, ah ‘lifestyle’?”  He raised his hands in finger quotes, which wasn’t easy when one of them was holding a fork, but he managed.

 Derek’s face closed down further—which, until now Stiles would not have thought possible.  How was Stiles fucking this up so badly?

“An ex-girlfriend,” Derek said shortly.

Another beat, both of them staring at their plates as Jackson whisked them out of the way and replaced the salads with a couple juicy looking steaks. 

Derek shifted next to Stiles, and for the first time that weekend Stiles thought maybe Derek was just as uncomfortable as Stiles was. 

“Yourself?” Derek tried, obviously attempting to make an effort.  Stiles appreciated that, at least.  It was nice to know that he wasn’t the only one struggling to find some sort of common ground.

“I kind of always knew.”  Stiles shrugged.  He hadn’t struggled with it the way Scott had.  Not really.  He’d known, even as a kid, the things that attracted him weren’t necessarily things that ought to have attracted him.  But they did, and he’d seen no sense in denying that. “It wasn’t until my dad finally got around to getting us the internet that I learned there was a name—kink, BDSM, submissive—but, like, it was always a part of me.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Yeah, I was.  I am.  I know it’s not an easy thing for some people to come to terms with… but it was just so natural for me that I didn’t really think much of it.  It felt right.”  He smiled, and his heart stumbled a bit when Derek gave a tentative smile back. “And, you know, like the song says,” he let himself half-sing the next few words, “‘If it makes you happy, it can’t be that ba-a-a-a-d’.”

“That’s a good attitude to have.”

“Yep.”  The steak was grilled to perfection, and Stiles shoved another bite in his mouth as he talked, not even thinking about how he was supposed to be on his best behaviour still.  “Of course, it could have been terrible if the thing I was into was, like, killing people, and then you’ve got this kid running around thinking ‘well it makes me happy so it can’t be _that_ wrong’, and then next thing you know there’s a mysterious string of murders in Beacon Hills and—” his brain finally caught up with his mouth and he snapped it closed with a flush.  “Well.  It’s lucky I like receiving pain and not giving,” he gave a weak laugh. God, no wonder he was single.

“Lucky indeed,” Derek murmured, and Stiles looked over to see Derek’s eyes on his.  Stiles could feel his cheeks darken further, the rush of blood no longer having so much to do with embarrassment and a whole lot to do with pure, unadulterated lust.  Shit. If Lydia and Allison turned out to be right, Stiles was never going to live this down. 

 

When Scott pulled back and began loosening the rope wound around Stiles’s arms and torso, Stiles tried not to feel too disappointed. It wasn’t like he’d gone into this thinking he’d get off—this was Scott, after all, and while they’d definitely had times when they were more than platonic, it had never been a regular thing. And Scott was absolutely devoted to Isaac and Allison.  So Stiles had known playing with Scott wouldn’t lead to anything.  Not for Stiles, anyways. 

He could tell by the gleam in Scott’s eyes, and the way Scott’s fingers trailed a little too long on Stiles’s skin as he pulled the knots free, that Scott would be headed straight towards the aforementioned couple for what would probably be a lot of enthusiastic sex. Stiles tried not to be jealous.

He was happy for Scott, like, _way_ happy for his bro.  But it did irk slightly to know he was only the warm up to the main attraction.  Not that Scott wouldn’t be horrified and apologetic if he realized that was how Stiles felt, which was why Stiles wasn’t going to say anything, because otherwise this would have turned into the weekend of kink where Stiles didn’t get any kink.

Which meant when Scott was gathering the rope back into his hands, his movements smooth and mechanical and clearly focusing on what he’d be doing in a few short moments and not what he was doing now, Stiles took the opportunity to duck out of the room.  They hadn’t done anything intense, nothing that required any kind of aftercare, not for him, and for Scott it had probably been nothing more than the opportunity to practice rope.  Stiles knew rope—or restraints of any kind—were a hard limit for Isaac, and while Allison and Scott played with it on their own occasionally Stiles knew Scott enjoyed the chance to try what he had learned on a male-bodied person. 

Stiles was more than happy to provide that male body, but now that it was over he had to admit that he felt more wound-up than he’d thought he’d be.

He could feel the heat in his cheeks, his chest, and it coiled down to his belly so that he had to adjust himself in his jeans as he made his way through the first floor of the house.  It wasn’t that late, not really, but the common areas seemed to be deserted.  Stiles was glad of it since it meant no one would see how much the relatively light play had affected him.

It had just been a while, that was all. A long time since he’d had the chance to indulge in this sort of thing.  It wasn’t like Stiles _never_ dipped a toe into the community in L.A., but he didn’t have time to commit to getting involved and to make friends, so whatever encounters he had were always brief. Take an evening to scratch a particular itch, and move on, easy as you please.

Only now he was forced to admit that maybe he’d been kidding himself to think that the occasional, random hookup would be enough.

Scott hadn’t touched him anywhere below the waist, hadn’t done anything overtly sexual, and yet Stiles was ready to jump out of his skin with the need for more.  More contact, more sensation, more _something_. 

Tugging irritably at the neck of his t-shirt, Stiles made his way through the first floor of the house and out through the wide glass doors that led to the deck out back.  It was dark outside, the wind rustling through the branches of the trees, and Stiles could see the gleaming reflection of the moon in the water of the lake.  He closed the door behind him and just stood for a moment, letting the cool air glide against his heated skin and closing his eyes to try and pull himself back together.

It didn’t work.  Stiles still felt edgy, still wanted to feel something more intense than the bite of winter in the night, and he made a sharp sound of frustration. Opening his eyes, he wandered farther down the deck. 

Like everything in Lydia’s lake house, the deck was huge, and wrapped around the entire house.  At one end, the side closest to the lake, there was a hot tub large enough to fit twelve.  The cover was off, the water bubbling and steaming in the air, and without a second thought Stiles reached down and pulled his shirt off as he headed towards it. 

His jeans were next, and then his boxers, both tossed carelessly to the wooden floor of the deck as he reached the hot tub and pulled himself over the side, easing himself in with a quick, indrawn breath as the hot water closed over his body. 

The contrast between the cold air and the heat that swirled around his middle was exquisite.  Stiles stood in the centre of the pool, arms stretched out at his sides, and tilted his head back so he could feel the breeze against his throat even as the water frothed hot at his hipbones. 

He couldn’t help the shudder, nor the low, needy groan that was pulled from his throat as he brought his wet hands up and slid them over the exposed flesh of his chest, letting water run down cold and bracing as the wind picked up and his nipples pebbled in response. 

This wasn’t exactly what he wanted, wasn’t the same as having someone else hold him down and pull sensations from his body with nothing but the bruising force of their hands or the sting of leather or the rough drag of rope, but it was close.   

  His hand slid down, gliding over the flat pane of his belly, fingertips light over the line of coarse hair that led down further.  Jerking off in the hot tub was firmly against the rules, but Stiles thought no one could complain if he didn’t actually _come_ in the hot tub, right?  His fingers dipped into the water, eyes closed as he imagined the wet heat surrounding him was not water at all, but a mouth, lips pink and swollen and so soft in contrast to the dark stubble—

There was a noise behind him, a polite cough, and Stiles jerked his hand out of the water like he’d been bitten, nearly slipping into and under the water in his haste to turn around.

 

Derek had expected Stiles to look embarrassed at having been caught out in the manner he had been, and Derek was already regretting having announced his presence—though was he supposed to just watch Stiles get himself off, naked and wanton, with the impressions of rope still coiled around his pale torso?  Since Derek had nearly done just that, had been tempted to melt back into the shadows of the house and watch greedily, it had been his own guilty conscience that drove him to let Stiles know he wasn’t as alone as he might have thought. But when Stiles turned, minor flailing aside, his eyes were bright and hot, the flush in his cheeks from desire and not shame. 

He met Derek’s gaze with a stubborn tilt of his chin, challenging and utterly arrogant in a way that made Derek’s fingers flex at his sides with the urge to see Stiles on his knees in front of him, all that cockiness at Derek’s disposal.  For Derek to break or build. 

God, he _wanted_.  Wanted to see Stiles writhing, begging and desperate, pleading and strung-out and focused solely on what Derek chose to give him. What Derek decided to make him take.

  “That’s all it took?” Derek kept his voice even, perfectly modulated, and as he stepped further into the moonlight he raised one eyebrow—deliberately skeptical, deliberately meeting Stiles’s challenge with one of his own.

“What’s all it took?”  Stiles refused to cross his arms over his chest, refused to let himself react to the way Derek’s gaze was dark and heavy on his bare skin. He could almost feel it pressing into him like a bruise, and under the water he was helpless to stop arousal pulsing thick in his blood.

“Just that,” Derek nodded, eyes tracing over the criss-cross of the rope marks on Stiles’s chest, already fading pink, “A little rope and you’re already on the edge?”

“I’m not—” Stiles began, outraged and defiant and finding himself drawing closer to the edge of the tub as Derek continued to make his way across the deck.

“Don’t lie.”  Don’t lie to _me_ was unspoken, obvious, and the implication made things low in Stiles’s body clench, sweet and aching.

“I’m not on the edge of anything.”  Oh, but he was, and the thrill of it was dizzying.

“Prove it.”

“Why?”  Stiles looked down at Derek, a stubborn tilt to his chin.

Derek’s teeth flashed, his grin quick and knowing. “Because you want to. Because you think you have that much control.”  He was so close now that Stiles could have reached out with a wet hand and touched him. “And because,” Derek continued, his hands gripping the edge of the tub as he leaned in, “A part of you hopes I’ll make you lose it.”

“What are you suggesting?”  Stiles didn’t have anything to prove, he _didn’t_ , but he could feel the thunder of his pulse in his ears and he couldn’t help the way his eyes drifted down from Derek’s to glide over the soft curve of his lips.

“Let me flog you.”  Derek wanted to put his marks on that flushed skin. To leave lines sharp and stark and red, to raise welts.  Things that wouldn’t fade in a matter of minutes, but stay vivid and tender so that Stiles would still feel the touch of him days later.  So that every brush of his shirt over the skin of his back would feel like Derek pressing a hand there. 

Stiles said nothing, but Derek could see the way his breath had caught, was close enough to watch Stiles’s pupils swallow the honey gold of his irises.  “If you last—if I don’t make you come—you win.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, alright.”  Stiles felt suddenly unmoored standing at the side of the pool, his hands clenching uselessly at his sides as he resisted the urge to wrap them around the edge of the tub simply to have something to hold on to.  But that would put him too close to Derek—he’d be mirroring the older man’s stance—but where Derek’s fingers rested on the edge like he was amused by the excuse for a barrier between them, Stiles’s would grip the slick plastic because he wasn’t sure his knees would keep him upright. Not with the way Derek’s grin grew at Stiles’s ‘yeah’.  Not with the intensity in those wolf-wild eyes. 

“Come on,” Derek took a step back and held a hand out to Stiles to help him down.  “Let’s go inside.”

“No.”  Stiles’s response was immediate, defensive, and it brought him back to himself even as his eyes drifted down to the calloused palm upturned in front of him. This was game that they were playing, a game they’d played before—not with each other, perhaps, but a game they were familiar with and a game Stiles wasn’t going to lose (even if, a part of him was forced to acknowledge, he was already dangerously close and Derek hadn’t even touched him).  Going inside, some private room where it was just the two of them, would make it nearly impossible for Stiles to remember that it was his pride at stake here.

Maybe he did have something to prove.

“Here?”  Derek glanced at the deck, surprised, and seeing Derek caught off balance even if it was only for the briefest second let Stiles’s earlier cockiness return.

“Here,” he confirmed.  “Unless you think it’s going to take you long enough that we’re in danger of getting frostbite…?”  He arched an eyebrow in echo of Derek’s earlier challenge and was rewarded with Derek’s eyes narrowing.  The grin was gone now, and Derek’s face had settled back into what Stiles assumed was his normal, neutral expression.  Only now Stiles could see the tightness in his jaw, the soft, barely-there colour in his cheeks over the dark shadow of stubble, and he knew Derek wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared. 

“Very well.”  Derek stepped back again, let his hand fall, and Stiles waded to the very edge of the tub and without an ounce of shame hauled himself out. He was half-hard, his arousal obvious enough even in the shadows of the deck, but if Derek wasn’t equally as turned on, Stiles would eat Jackson’s jockstrap.

Bending down he picked up his discarded pants, wriggled into the jeans even as the heavy fabric clung uncomfortably to his wet skin. It was too cold to stand on the deck bare-ass naked, and for a moment Stiles reconsidered his position about going inside.  But then he saw the way Derek’s eyes dropped, lingered, on the open button that Stiles hadn’t bothered doing up, and Stiles stopped thinking about anything but getting Derek to touch him.

“There,” Derek nodded towards the edge of the deck, pleasure spreading heady through his veins as Stiles obeyed without question and moved to stand where Derek had indicated.  “Turn around.  Hands on the railing.”  He could see Stiles bite down on his bottom lip, apprehension and eagerness plain on his face as he turned and settled his palms against the rough wood. 

“Good.”  Derek paused for a moment, waiting to see if Stiles would twist his head around to see what Derek was doing, but Stiles remained still and quiet against the rail.  “Stay there,” Derek commanded, and without waiting for any sort of agreement from Stiles he headed back into the house to retrieve one of his floggers.

Stiles stared out at the lake before him, watched the soft ripple of the water against the shore and the uncertain reflection of the moon.  His breath was coming slow and easy, and he could feel himself slip away into the quiet place where he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to question or argue or understand, just obey.  It was the sweetest kind of surrender. As his mind emptied of anything but ‘ _Stay_ ’ Stiles could feel the tension glide out of his muscles. This was why he came to Lydia’s. This was why he craved the things he did—nothing else could bring Stiles to this point of clarity, of the blind awareness of every inch of his own skin and the complete blankness inside his own mind.

It felt like seconds, like eons, and then Derek was back behind him.  Stiles could feel the minute Derek stepped onto the deck, was helpless to stop his head from tipping back as Derek moved up behind him, the heat of the other man almost burning against the bare skin of Stiles’s back.

Derek didn’t say anything, just settled one hand around Stiles’s denim-clad hip and pushed him forward so that Stiles was pressed fully against the wood, the skin of his stomach pressing against his thumbs where his hands were wrapped around the railing.  Stiles made a low noise in his throat, barely audible, and his eyes slid closed as Derek ran that same hand up his back, Derek’s palm warm and dry against Stiles’s skin until it fisted in the short hair at the nape of Stiles’s neck and forced his head forward. 

“Colour?” Derek breathed against his ear and Stiles shuddered. 

“Green,” he managed, skin tightening with anticipation as Derek stepped away and once again Stiles felt the cold air against his back. 

The first hit was always a shock—the force of it rocked Stiles forward, a biting blaze of heat that drew the breath from his mouth. 

Derek felt the impact of the blow through his entire body.  It ran from his arm straight down to his groin and his mouth parted as he drew in a quick breath. The flogger he’d chosen was one of his largest, a heavy-duty whip that packed a solid, thudding punch as opposed to some of his smaller, thinner ones.  To the inexperienced eye the large flogger with its many strips of leather might have looked intimidating, something to flay skin from bone and cause maximum damage to the human body, but it was really the small whips, the single tails or few strings of knotted leather, that had a tendency to draw blood. 

With this one, the thick handle a pleasing counterweight to the heavy strips of leather that dangled from the end, he would leave bruises.  It would raise welts—Derek could already see Stiles’s skin swelling—but the real pleasure was knowing how long Stiles would feel the dull ache in his back. Once the red began to fade there’d be purple lingering deeper in Stiles’s flesh and every time he reached for something, every time he bent down, every time he leaned back against a surface, he’d feel it.

Before Stiles had time to recover from the first blow, just as he began to drag in a breath, Derek struck again.  And again.  And again.  He varied the blows, right and left, higher and lower, until Stiles’s upper back was a map of reddened skin and his breath was coming hard and fast to match Derek’s.

Sweat had broken out over Derek’s brow, damp against his chest, and he was straining hard and throbbing inside of his jeans. Stiles hadn’t made a noise, not a single whimper or cry past his first, gasping breath, and it filled Derek with a fierce sense of pride. 

Stupid, really.  It wasn’t as though Stiles was his.  It wasn’t as though he’d taken it so beautifully, so soundlessly, because he knew it would please Derek.  Maybe Stiles was just absurdly quiet when he played—maybe it was a personal quirk, a counterpoint to a mouth that usually seemed to run off without thought, but Derek couldn’t suppress the pleasure he felt at having rendered the younger man non-verbal. 

Lowering the flogger to his side, letting his fingers finally relax around the handle of it, Derek crossed the deck until he stood close enough to Stiles that there was less than an inch of space between the front of him and Stiles’s naked back.

“Colour?”

“G-Green,” It took Stiles a moment to speak, his voice hoarse.  The skin on his back felt pulled taut over his bones, an ache sunk deep into his body, and he could feel the heat of Derek.  Stiles’s chest heaved as he sucked in shuddering breath after shuddering breath, his fingers stiff as he slowly unwrapped them from around the railing, flexing to bring the blood back into his joints.

He stilled when he felt Derek’s hand wrap heavy around the base of his neck, Derek’s thumbnail digging into what had to be a fresh welt because the sharp shock of pain—an unexpected change from the thudding blows from the flogger—had Stiles’s knees ready to give out under him.

Derek seemed to have anticipated Stiles’s reaction because there was another hand firm around his hip and he pulled Stiles back against him so Stiles’s back, the skin raw and tingling, was pressed firmly against Derek’s front.  Stiles gave a grunt of surprise, unable to react with his usual speed, and when his hands came up to try and regain his balance they felt heavy, moving through the air like it was syrup. 

“No,” Derek growled, close enough that Stiles could feel the brush of lips against the shell of his ear.  “Hands on the railing.”

Stiles obeyed without thought, settling his hands back in their earlier position as the hand around his nape slid around to the front of his throat and dragged his head back so that it rested against Derek’s shoulder.  The angle was awkward, restricting Stiles’s breathing, and he could feel his pulse pound, steady and solid, against Derek’s large palm.  

Derek’s second hand slid, slow and purposeful, into the open waistband of Stiles’s jeans and found his cock.  Stiles’s mouth dropped open, hips jerking into the touch before he could think to be still.  Derek began to stroke, a fast, brutal rhythm that matched the ruthless efficiency of how he’d flogged Stiles, and it didn’t take more than a matter of seconds before Stiles’s fingers were digging into the wood and his back was arching and he was coming in hot, liquid bursts into Derek’s fist.

When Stiles sagged back against him, boneless and limp, his entire weight resting in Derek’s hands, Derek let his own head dip forward so that the side of his cheek was pressed against Stiles’s ear. Stiles’s skin was hot against his, Stiles’s temple damp with sweat, and Derek let his eyes fall closed, his hands sliding to wrap around Stiles’s body until they stood embraced like lovers on the deck.

The air stirred around them, Derek’s t-shirt sticking damp and chilled against his skin, and he knew he’d have to take Stiles inside in a moment, get him warmed up, but for a second longer he wanted—needed—to stay there with Stiles.  The younger man was beginning to shake, not from the cold, but small tremors of aftershock working through his system as his heartbeat began to slow from the high of the orgasm.  Derek wanted to push Stiles to his knees, watch Stiles’s unfocused eyes as he tried to stay upright before Derek fisted a hand into his hair and pressed his cock into Stiles’s slack-open mouth. 

It would be hot and wet and without any kind of finesse, Stiles too drunk from the feel of Derek’s whip against his skin and Derek’s hand pulling an orgasm out him to do anything but take it. When Derek finished, Stiles’s mouth would be as bruised as his back, his face covered in drool and come and he’d look up at Derek with those whiskey eyes blurred and Derek would pull him up and hold him close and they’d fall back into the bed where Derek could trace the marks he’d made with his fingertips and Stiles would fall asleep wrapped around him and when they both woke up they’d—

Derek opened his eyes and lifted his head, drawing in a long breath of the cold night air to clear his head.  They’d discussed none of that.  They’d agreed to nothing but the flogger, nothing but Derek making Stiles come.  He was getting caught up in fantasy and he knew better than that, he was a better _dom_ than that.

“Here,” his voice was gruff when he spoke, hands gentle on Stiles as he stepped back and began to guide Stiles towards the house, stopping only to bend down and pick up his flogger and wrap the blanket he’d brought out with him around Stiles’s shoulders.  Stiles flinched when the rough wool came into contact with his back and Derek couldn’t help sliding his hand down, ostensibly to smooth the blanket but enjoying Stiles’s satisfied wince of pain. 

Once they were inside, he turned and closed the doors behind them, setting his flogger down on a nearby table before stepping back to Stiles and running his hands up Stiles’s arms, pulling the blanket in tighter around his front.  They were in California, so it wasn’t like it was freezing outside, but Derek wasn’t sure how long Stiles had been out before he’d come across Stiles naked in the hot tub and he didn’t want Stiles catching a chill. 

“Do you want to go to bed, or do you want to sit with me for a while?”  Derek reached out, cupping Stiles’s chin so that Stiles focused on him.  The scene they’d just had hadn’t been as intense as it could have been, was certainly nothing like what he’d done with Isaac that morning, but aftercare was important and Derek wouldn’t send Stiles off without offering.

“Um,” Stiles’s eyes were still hazy, his mouth opening as Derek’s thumb stroked unthinkingly along his jaw.  “Yeah.  Yes.  I’ll stay.”

Derek led Stiles to the couch, settling him down before disappearing briefly into the washroom to clean his hands, and then sinking down beside Stiles.  He lifted his arm up and Stiles slid under without hesitation, pressing in close against Derek’s side and making a small noise of contentment when Derek dropped his arm around Stiles’s shoulders.

“Y’know,” Stiles murmured, nuzzling against Derek’s chest where he could feel the beat of Derek’s heart against his cheek, “I’m pretty sure you cheated.”

“Hmm?” 

Stiles couldn’t see Derek’s face, not without pulling away and looking up, and he had no intentions of doing that, not with Derek’s arm settled a heavy, comforting weight on his shoulders and the firm muscle of Derek’s thigh against Stiles’s own, but he could perfectly picture the raised eyebrow Derek was most likely giving him.

“Yeah.  You used your hand.”

There was a pause, and then Derek’s chest was shaking under Stiles’s head and it took a moment before he realized Derek was _laughing_ —and that, Stiles had to see. 

Using a hand on Derek’s thigh to push himself up Stiles twisted and saw Derek’s head thrown back, shaking with silent laughter, his mouth open and wide in a grin.  As soon as he realized Stiles was watching him, Derek tried to get himself back under control, pressing his lips closed but his body still shook and his eyes danced with mirth.

“I didn’t cheat,” Derek insisted.  “I said _I_ was going to make you come. Not my flogger.”

“Really?  You’re going to get off on a technicality?”

“I think you’re the one who got off on that technicality.”

Stiles stared, opened mouthed and speechless as Derek doubled over, unable to quell the rich burst of laughter that finally broke free at the dumbfounded look on Stiles’s face.

“Did you just make a _joke_?” Stiles demanded. He couldn’t take his eyes off Derek’s face, couldn’t help but stare at the transformation of the stern, ‘yes, _sir_ ’ dom to this person who cracked himself up with his own bad puns. For the first time Derek looked, fuck, he looked _human_ in a way Stiles hadn’t seen until now. Real, and human, and Stiles wanted to crawl fully into Derek’s lap and take Derek’s face into his hands and press kiss after kiss against that laughing mouth.  The ferocity of the urge took Stiles by surprise, and he had to clench his hands tight around the blanket around him to stop himself from reaching out.

He barely knew Derek—barely _liked_ Derek—he shouldn’t be this attracted to him.  He shouldn’t be so suddenly, irrationally, jealous that _he_ hadn’t been the one to make Derek laugh.  That was just stupid. 

If any part of Stiles wondered why he was trying so hard to deny what he was feeling, he ignored it.  Never mind that there was no good reason for Stiles to dismiss the way his chest glowed warm when Derek settled back against the couch and tucked Stiles back under his arm, never mind that the way he fit so perfectly against Derek’s side made Stiles snuggle closer, never mind that Derek’s fingers tracing idle patterns on Stiles’s shoulder though the fabric of the blanket made Stiles’s eyes slide closed and a sigh of contentment slip from his lips. 

It was all endorphins, he told himself. He was only feeling this way because of the flogging, because of the way his entire back ached with the sweetness of a bruise, because he’d, as Derek said, gotten off.  It was only physical.  Nothing more.  He’d feel the same if it had been anyone else—Scott, or Lydia, or Boyd.

(Never mind that he’d played just as hard with all three before and never once felt like he’d come home).

“Stop thinking so much,” Derek said, his hand moving up from Stiles’s arm to run through Stiles’s hair, making Stiles stretch and purr unconsciously under the touch.  “Just relax for a few minutes, alright?”

Stiles didn’t want to, he _didn’t_ , but Derek’s fingers kept carding through his hair and pressing into his scalp and he couldn’t help but melt into the sensation and within a matter of moments his mind emptied of anything but the gentle tug of Derek’s hand in his hair.

 

Derek wasn’t surprised when Stiles fell asleep, when the younger man’s breath slowed and his eyes slid shut, and he drifted off lying against Derek’s chest.  From what he’d heard from Lydia, Stiles rarely had the chance to play in L.A., and though the two of them hadn’t done anything too involved on the deck, it had still taken a lot out of Stiles. 

It had taken a lot out of Derek, if he was being honest. 

He was always careful, always calculated when he played with a sub.  It was too easy for a dom to step over the line, to abuse the power they’d been trusted with, as Derek knew all too well.  He always forced himself to take a step back, to observe and watch and make sure he never pressed for more than had been offered.  But something about Stiles standing still and silent and just _waiting_ to take what Derek had to throw at him—god, Stiles hadn’t even been restrained, hadn’t had anything but the force of his own will to hold himself still as Derek drew welts from his skin with the unflinching bite of leather. 

It had been beautiful, watching Stiles so in control. It had left Derek breathless when he’d wrapped a hand around Stiles’s hard cock and felt Stiles relinquish that control to him.  The power Derek had felt, the power Stiles had given him, had flowed through Derek’s blood like the most expensive wine and even now, when Stiles was lax with sleep against him, sent shards of desire lancing through Derek. 

He was hard still, could feel the eager press of himself against the fabric of his jeans, and with a groan Derek forced himself to get to his feet.  Stiles made a soft noise of protest, still asleep, and reached out. 

Derek debated leaving him there—it wasn’t like the couch wasn’t soft, wasn’t a perfectly acceptable substitute for a bed—but he knew Stiles’s back would be stiff and sore enough tomorrow that he wouldn’t need a crink in his neck or a twisted arm when he woke up.  Muttering a curse under his breath Derek leaned down and gathered Stiles into his arms, hauling him up so that Stiles’s legs hung on either side of Derek’s hip and his head lolled forward against the side of Derek’s neck.

“Stupid,” Derek chastised himself, but he was careful to cup his arm around Stiles’s ass, careful to avoid the bruising on his back, and with his other hand keeping Stiles steady he made his way up the stairs until he found Stiles’s room, kicking open the door and bending down awkwardly to slide Stiles onto the bed.  He took pains to ensure Stiles wasn’t lying on his back, but the second he let go of the younger man Stiles flopped over, his mouth pulling down into a perfect cupid-bow frown as his bare back pressed against the mattress. Derek scowled but rolled him over again, touch light but unable to help tracing a soft line down one of the more pronounced marks on Stiles’s back.  He could feel the heat of the flushed skin on the pad of his finger and it made things low in Derek’s body twist, lust coiling serpentine.

He stepped back from the bed, refused to let himself linger in the room even as Stiles made another soft noise and dragged a pillow close to his chest like now that he didn’t have Derek to wrap himself around he needed something.  Closing the door firmly behind himself Derek walked down the hallway until he got to his room, and closed that door behind himself as well.

Yanking off his shirt, he dropped his jeans to the floor and pulled off his underwear, falling gracelessly into his own bed, his hand around his cock before he’d even landed on the mattress.

It took barely a minute for Derek to come, back arched and panting as he pictured Stiles spread out beneath him with Derek’s marks fresh against his skin.

 


	3. Chapter 3

SUNDAY

 

Stiles snuggled deeper against the pillow he held, nuzzling his face against the fabric and luxuriating in how great he felt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well, couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up slow and soft and with a gentle haze of peacefulness wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Even yesterday, when he’d overslept, he hadn’t felt this good. 

He wanted to stay in this exact spot, with this exact feeling of contentment, for the rest of his life. 

He started to wriggle further into the blankets but the movement pulled at the skin on his back and Stiles froze at the sudden flare of heat and the dull pull of pain.  The events of the previous night rushed back to him, and hiding a grin in the pillow, Stiles stretched out fully so that he could feel the ache all over his back.

God he was stiff, and sore, too.  He would be for at least a few days, he was sure, as he pushed himself up off the mattress.  Not that Stiles minded, not in the least.  He went out of his way to bend down to grab his suitcase, taking any excuse to feel the marks Derek had left on his back, before padding naked into the bathroom so that he could twist around and look at them in the mirror.

His skin was red, purpling in some places where Stiles could see the flogger had landed more than once.  He reached a hand up over his shoulder and pressed down against one of the more vivid bruises, biting his lip at the sensation and feeling himself grow hard.  There was no good explanation for why pain caused him to be so aroused, no real explaining it to anyone who didn’t feel it themselves, but Stiles couldn’t deny that it just flat out did it for him.

He’d had vanilla sex before—plenty of it—with guys and girls (post-high-school Stiles had done away with his virginity as quickly and efficiently as possible), and while it wasn’t like he couldn’t do it or couldn’t get off, or didn’t enjoy himself, it was never the _same_. It was never as good. It never left Stiles feeling whole, feeling complete and utterly sated and it never seemed to leave reminders for the next day, or days, after. 

Stiles could never decide what his favourite part was—the actual kink, the act of being beaten or flogged or tied up or held down or fucked with zero finesse, or if it was the day after when he could see the evidence of what had happened written across his body. The way he could bring it back with the simple press of a finger into a bruise or a rug burn. 

Probably it was both. 

Stepping into the shower he turned on the taps, stifling a groan as the hot water hit his back.  His hand trailed down his stomach, stroked over his cock.

He meant to make it last—intended to have a long, leisurely go of it to match the lazy way he’d woken up—but as he closed his fingers around himself and his eyes slid shut, his head tipping back into the spray, he remembered how last night it had been Derek’s fingers wrapped firm and demanding around him.  Derek’s chest hard against his back, and the rough drag of Derek’s beard against the nape of Stiles’s neck. 

Stiles couldn’t stop the shuddering intake of breath, couldn’t help the way his hips jerked forward into his hand at the memory, and was unable to prevent his hand from moving faster until he’d had to fling his other hand out to catch himself against the wall because the orgasm hit like a blow and he doubled over with the force of it, eyes screwed shut and digging his teeth into his bottom lip to quell a shout. 

Sagging against the tile, Stiles let his head hang forward and the water run over his closed eyes and into his open mouth.

Fuck, he was so fucking fucked. 

 

“Hey, Stiles.”  Isaac lifted his mug of coffee in greeting as Stiles walked into the dining room.  Stiles pulled out a chair and joined Isaac at the table, glad that he’d woken up in time that breakfast was still laid out, even if it looked as though nearly everyone else had already eaten. 

“Morning,” Stiles returned, reaching for the coffee pot and wincing as the movement pulled at his back.  Isaac laughed, and for some unfathomable reason Stiles found himself blushing.  “What?” he asked defensively, busying himself by adding cream and sugar to his own mug.

“Just glad to see you’ve played with Derek,” Isaac answered smugly.  “He’s good, isn’t he?”

Stiles looked over to where Isaac sat, his position nearly mirroring Stiles’s, with his back straight and carefully eased away from the back of the chair.  Stiles could bring to mind what Isaac’s back looked like under the fabric of his t-shirt—Stiles had seen it yesterday when Isaac had knelt at Derek’s feet, knew it matched the pattern of lashes he’d seen on his own in the mirror—and again Stiles found himself reacting unexpectedly. 

It was none of Stiles’s business who Derek played with, who Isaac played with.  Their little group was, by necessity, pretty damn incestuous, so after about four years of weekends at Lydia’s they’d all played with each other in a myriad of different combinations.  Stiles wasn’t a jealous person by nature—he’d never begrudge anyone the opportunity to experience something new or engage in any kind of consensual play or sex with anyone else—but for some totally bizarre reason he found the idea of Derek and Isaac as irritating as a stone in his shoe.  What’s more, it was the _opposite_ totally bizarre reason that he’d had the day before, when he’d been frustrated at finding Derek’s interloping presence everywhere he looked.

It was stupid.  There was literally no good reason for Stiles to care one way or the other, and if anything he should be happy that Isaac had found another play partner and that Derek had found someone, too—that way there wasn’t any pressure for Stiles to play with Derek just so the guy could get some action. Not that anyone would ever say anything like that, because of course they wouldn’t, but Stiles would have felt a touch guilty if Derek came out for the kink weekend and didn’t get any kind of kink. 

But obviously that wasn’t an issue. Because obviously Derek had been more than happy to go from flogging Isaac (and making Isaac call him _sir,_ which still rankled) to flogging Stiles.  Like they were totally interchangeable.  Just two tall, gawky white boys who got off on pain. Who wouldn’t want that, right?

Stiles realized he was scowling at his still-empty plate, and that Isaac was waiting with an eyebrow raised expectantly for him to answer his question.

“Yes,” he said shortly, reaching for a croissant and refusing to acknowledge how the movement made the skin across his shoulders ache and pull in a way that made his pulse skip.  Tearing off a piece of the pastry, Stiles deliberately leaned back into the chair, like if he pretended the hard wood against his bruises didn’t send all kinds of sparks though his body then he could just as easily deny how unsettled he currently felt. 

“I don’t usually play with Derek,” Isaac continued blandly, ignoring Stiles’s forced nonchalance.  “Scott and Allison are already more than enough.” He winked, and Stiles couldn’t help grinning at that.  The three of them were ridiculously in love with each other, it was so obvious, and even when Stiles was as oddly cranky as he was right now, that was enough to cheer him up.  He’d be a pretty shitty friend if the thought of his best buddy finding his very own, very unconventional Happily Ever After didn’t make him smile.

“But you know I don’t like rope—restraints—that kind of thing,” Isaac glanced down at the table and Stiles’s smile turned into a frown, instantly concerned at the way Isaac’s shoulders hunched forwards slightly in discomfort.  Stiles knew enough of Isaac’s history with his father that he took Isaac’s dislike for restraints very, very seriously.  “It’s not that bad,” Isaac hurried to clarify when he saw the worry on Stiles’s face.  “They’d never—they have never—asked me to play with it.  They don’t even bring it up if I’m in the room, and they won’t play with them in our house.”  Isaac shifted, toying with the handle on his mug.  “But Allison likes bondage when she subs, and Scott, well… Scott likes everything.  I feel bad sometimes that they don’t get to play with restraints because of me, so this weekend I told them they should.”  He swallowed.

“You don’t have to—”

“No,” Isaac cut Stiles off, meeting Stiles’s eyes with a direct gaze.  “I need to be more comfortable talking about this.  It’s something I’m working on.  I’m not going to let _him_ ,” Isaac’s father, “Continue to have this much control over me, you know?”

Stiles nodded and wished he had something more profound to say, but he knew right now Isaac just wanted someone to listen, and so he did. 

“Anyway, I thought as long as I wasn’t in the room I’d be okay with it.  I was fine watching Boyd and Erica on Friday night.  That didn’t bother me at all.  I told Scott and Allison to go have fun with it yesterday morning. I was sure I could deal. I mean,” Isaac laughed but there was an edge to it.  “I wasn’t watching, and they were in the white room so it wasn’t like I’d even be able to hear them, but… it kind of freaked me out.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  I couldn’t stop picturing what they might be doing and Allison being trapped and I _know_ Scott.  Scott would never, ever, ever do anything she didn’t want to do or didn’t ask for.  He’d _never_. But I was crawling out of my skin and I needed to just stop thinking about it, and so I went and found Derek.” Isaac took a sip of his coffee and whether it was that or the mention of Derek, he began to relax again. “Derek gets it. He’s the reason for the no fire play rule—he can’t stand fire.  There was an accident, when he was a kid, with his family,” Isaac’s voice was grim.  “So he knew, right away, what I needed.  He knew I had to get out of my head.”  Isaac leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table.  “He got me out of my head.  He grounded me. He focused me.  He spent his morning making sure I didn’t think about what was happening with Allison and Scott.”

Derek’s words from Friday night echoed in Stiles’s head, _BDSM isn’t just about sex.  Not for me_. Stiles’s brain flicked back to last night, to how antsy and unfulfilled he’d felt out on the deck—and how Derek had given Stiles exactly what he’d needed.  Derek hadn’t gotten off, Stiles remembered.  He couldn’t even recall if Derek had been hard when he’d jerked Stiles off.  Stiles had been pulled flush against the front of Derek’s body, but he’d been so focused on the blazing agony across his shoulders and the feeling of Derek’s hand around his own cock, that he couldn’t remember if he’d felt an answering arousal from Derek.

Stiles was tearing his croissant into tiny pieces over his plate, and as soon as he noticed the compulsive movement he stopped, dusting the crumbs off his fingers and settling his hands, still, against the top of his thighs.  His head was a jumbled mess of emotions and half-thoughts and he couldn’t separate them enough to read them clearly. 

“He’s a great guy, and a good dom,” Isaac rose from the table, taking his plate and coffee cup with him.  “But sometimes he gets so caught up in giving the rest of us what we need that he forgets about what _he_ needs.”

Stiles looked up at that, expression unguarded enough for Isaac to see the surprise and uncertainty on his face.

“Just something to think about.”  Isaac shrugged and made his way out of the dining room, leaving Stiles staring after him with a frown.

 

One of Derek’s favourite things about weekends at Lydia’s was how peaceful the woods were.  This far from the highway there was no rushing noise of traffic, no other cabins or trailers or campers.  He wasn’t entirely sure how much of the land around the lake Lydia’s family owned, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was most, if not all, of it. 

Settling his forearms on the railing, Derek smiled, letting the cold air nip at his nose and enjoying the fresh smell of pine and the rich scent of the coffee as it steamed gently from the mug in his hands. He felt good.  Relaxed and comfortable, warm in his sweater, and the slightest hint of soreness in his shoulder from the two separate floggings he’d administered yesterday. 

He’d enjoyed himself both times, had slipped easily into the headspace of being in control.  It was a place Derek was comfortable.  Though it had taken years to fully accept the part of himself that enjoyed causing pain—which was certainly not as easy as it had apparently been for Stiles, he reflected ruefully—he felt that he’d finally come to an understanding about himself and his preferences. 

It was something he wished he’d had the opportunity to discuss with his sister, Laura, before her death.  They’d both been so torn apart over what had happened to their family, and both had dealt with it in vastly different ways. Laura had thrown herself into school and spent all her time focused on making something of herself in an effort to be someone their parents would have been proud of. 

Derek had found Kate. 

Or, perhaps it was more accurate to say that Kate had found him.  She’d seen his anger, his barely controlled rage, and had given him an outlet for it. She’d encouraged him to give in to the fury, to lash out and cause pain.  She’d liked it, and Derek had liked that she’d liked it. If a part of him had worried he was going too far, that the things they did together in her apartment were in no way safe or sane, she’d talked him down.  Convinced him to play without safe words, without established boundaries, without concern for her safety.  She’d gotten off on it, on the thrill of Derek’s physical prowess and his loss of control.

It had taken Derek over a year to realize that the things they did together weren’t okay.  He’d trusted her. He thought he’d finally found someone who accepted who he was, but the entire time he thought he was the one in charge—had assumed because he could hold her down, could hurt her, that he had the power. He hadn’t understood then that it had been the opposite.  She’d manipulated him, used his grief and confusion to mould him into someone angry and reckless who didn’t understand the difference between BDSM and abuse.

After Derek had finally managed to leave Kate, and moved across the country to join Laura in New York, he’d been horrified by the things he’d done.  It had taken him a long time to understand that he wasn’t a monster.  That the things he preferred in the bedroom didn’t have to make him an animal—that when his partner was fully consenting, when there were clear negotiations and mutual respect and an awareness of what they both were looking for, that kink could be safe and healthy, a positive influence on his life. 

It had taken his own therapist, Dr. Deaton, to bring him to that understanding.  Deaton had been patient and sex-positive and encouraged Derek to explore the kink community.  Derek had realized that Kate wasn’t the norm, that there were other people like him who enjoyed the things he did and were _good_ people. 

When Derek did finally return to Beacon Hills it was as a very different person than the angry and dangerous teenager who’d left the town.  He was grateful to Lydia, Scott, Allison, Boyd, the whole group of them who’d formed the small community in the tiny town in northern California.  He’d finally found friends he could relate to, who understood the struggle of wanting things and not knowing that it was okay. The respect between the members of their group was something Derek wished he could have told his younger self about.  Something he wished he could have known he would find in those months after Kate when he’d fled to Laura, convinced there was something evil inside of him.

“Hey.”

This time it was Derek who jerked, nearly sloshing hot coffee over his hands at the unexpected noise from behind him. Swearing under his breath he turned to see Stiles standing on the deck, his hands in his pockets and his eyes bright with laughter.

“Sorry,” Stiles sounded about half sincere. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.”  Derek relaxed back against the railing.  “I was caught up in my own head, or I’d have heard you.” 

“Uh-huh.”  Stiles walked over to join Derek against the railing, his fingers dancing lightly over the wood.  “I wanted to thank you for last night.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”  Stiles licked his lips, his gaze sliding over Derek’s body as the older man lounged back against the deck.  “But, uh,” he brought his eyes back to meet Derek’s and heat simmered in the whiskey-gold of his irises.  “I feel like we left things a little… unfinished.”

“Is that so?”  Derek shifted to face Stiles, eyebrow arching expectantly.

“Yeah,” Stiles’s voice was husky, and it tugged on things low in Derek’s body.  It took a great deal of will power to stay leaning relaxed and casual against the railing and not press in closer to Stiles, but Derek wanted to see where Stiles was going with this.  Wanted to know what it was Stiles wanted that had brought colour bright to his cheeks.

“I thought you might want to, ah…” Stiles grinned, slow and cocky, leaning against the railing to mirror Derek’s nonchalant stance, “Finish.  Those things.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Derek gave a considering hum.  “And how would you like to… finish,” his pause was as deliberate as Stiles’s “Those things?”

Stiles swallowed around a throat that had gone tight and hot with anticipation.  “The white room is free this afternoon.”  It hadn’t been, actually.  He’d had to track down Erica and bribe her with an afternoon of shopping in L.A. later on that that month so that she’d relinquish the time she and Boyd had booked. He wasn’t going to admit that though.  He wouldn’t confess that he’d wanted to get Derek on his own badly enough to wheedle his way into it. 

 

When Stiles headed upstairs, at exactly three minutes after four, he found himself hesitating on the top of the landing. He could see the white room from here, just a few steps down the hallway and to his left.  He’d been in the room before.  There wasn’t any reason for the sight of it to fill him now with… with whatever it was that crackled along his skin until he felt as twitchy and unsettled as a cat rubbed with a balloon.  Maybe it was the way the door stood open, wide and almost too inviting.  It looked empty, from here, but somehow Stiles knew—could feel it heavy in the pit of his stomach—that Derek was inside.  Waiting. 

He was late on purpose.  He tried to tell himself it was stupid, that there was no point in trying to pretend he didn’t want to step across the threshold when they both knew, when everyone in the freaking house knew, that that was exactly what he wanted.  It was the principle of the thing, though.  Some last defiant act as he tried to prove to himself that he still had control. 

And maybe, just maybe, it was because he wanted to see what Derek would do.  Wanted to see if Derek would let him get away with it.  Stiles had a habit of getting away with things. He could talk and charm and flirt and miraculously weasel his way out of the worst sort of scrapes.  

Only this wasn’t a scrape Stiles wanted to get out of. Stiles wanted to get his hands on Derek.  He wanted to dig his nails into that sculpted muscle and drag until he left stark red lines in his wake.  He wanted to feel the press of Derek against him, hot and hard and urgent.  He wanted to fill his palms, his mouth, his body, with Derek’s need. He wanted to feel the release when Derek finally gave himself over to Stiles. 

Drawing in a quick breath through his nose, Stiles marched down the hallway and into the room, closing the door with a firm, decisive click behind him.  “Hey.”

Derek rose from the couch, the colour of him a shock against the muted white of the rest of the room.  “Hello, Stiles.”

Stiles hesitated against the door, waiting for the remark about his lateness that he was sure would come, but Derek just gestured for Stiles to take a seat on the couch before turning to a long table against the far wall. 

Stiles could see about a dozen or so items lined up carefully along the surface of the table, the dark leather and gleam of metal sending a shiver down his spine.  Derek bypassed all of these though, choosing to pour two glasses of richly coloured red wine from the bottle that stood at the edge of the table. Stiles sunk down on the couch and tried to affect the same air of casualness that Derek was displaying.

“Thank you,” Stiles said as Derek handed him one of the glasses of wine, and shifted to make room for Derek on the couch. But instead of joining Stiles on the couch like he’d expected, Derek ignored Stiles’s offer and settled himself in the armchair across from the couch.  Stiles blinked, nonplussed, his mouth going dry as Derek leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs.

He knew from their earlier encounter on the deck that morning that Derek wanted to run through the scene before they started, and Stiles had expected a friendly conversation covering safe words and do’s and don’t’s and the other boring but necessary matters of business and consent before they went any further. 

He hadn’t expected _this_.  Hadn’t expected such an immediate, visceral reaction to something so simple as Derek choosing the armchair instead of the couch.

Stiles realized he was staring, mouth slightly agape, and with a flush he looked away, bringing his wineglass up to his lips and taking a sip.  The wine was good, because of course it was, and the deep taste helped Stiles feel more grounded. He took another sip, letting the silky liquid rest on his tongue for a moment before swallowing and bringing the glass down to his lap. 

“How are you feeling?” Derek asked.

“How’m I—” Stiles started, and then stopped, cutting himself off.  Things had shifted, the dynamic now that Derek was in the chair and Stiles was in the couch was different.  He could feel it in the air around him, the charge prickling along his skin.  He wasn’t just Stiles anymore, he was both less-than, and more.  He could slip off the suit he wore most days and let himself fall into the comforting, dreamy headspace of submission.  “I feel good,” he answered, honesty raw in his voice.  “Excited.  Nervous. But good.”  It was so easy to turn off the part of him that was always thinking, the part that constantly strove to find the cleverest, wittiest thing to say.  He didn’t have to do that here, now. 

“I’m glad to hear it.”  Derek smiled, his eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners, and Stiles could feel his heart begin to pound. 

He wanted to set his glass of wine down on the coffee table and crawl across the floor to come up between Derek’s knees. He wanted to press his face against Derek’s thigh and feel Derek’s hand stroke slowly through his hair. He wanted to unfasten the belt on Derek’s pants, slide down the zipper, reach in and—

“I’ve set some items out on the table,” Derek’s head tilted in the direction of the table where the wine sat, though his eyes stayed dark on Stiles’s, “Things I’d like the option of using tonight. Would you like to go take a look at them—let me know if there are any you are opposed to?”

The question wasn’t really a question, and Stiles was on his feet before Derek had even finished speaking.  There was a buzzing thrum of tension under Stiles’s skin, the slick heat of apprehension heavy in his stomach.  He chanced a sidelong glance at Derek who was watching him patiently, and then Stiles turned his attention to the objects laid out before him.

  There was nothing he hadn’t seen before, and most of them he’d had first hand experience with.  His hand reached out, fingers stroked briefly over the braided leather on the handle of a riding crop, across the cold links of chain laid carefully beside a set of padded cuffs, hesitated on the orange plastic of a fly swatter, and touched the foil of a condom package.  There was rope coiled in several different lengths, a blindfold, a ball gag, two paddles; one leather, the other wood, a pinwheel gleaming bright and wicked, and a slim pair of leather gloves, as well as a handful of other toys.

“Not this.”  Stiles reached out again, fingers not-quite touching the fly swatter, nose wrinkled in distaste.  “I know you probably haven’t killed any bugs with it, but… ew.”

Derek rose from the chair and moved towards the table, close enough that Stiles could feel the air thicken around them, but Derek didn’t touch him, just picked up the fly swatter and tucked it in the duffle bag that sat under the table.  “Everything else you’re fine with?”

“Yes.  I mean, I haven’t ever used one of these before,” Stiles pointed to the pinwheel, “But if I don’t like it I’ll let you know.”

Derek nodded in approval.  “As far as sex or physical contact between us goes—is there anything that would pull you out of your headspace, or be a hard limit for you?”

“No scat,” Stiles cast a quick look about the room. “And no watersports—that’s not a _hard_ limit for me, but this isn’t exactly the room for it.”  It wasn’t really his kink, but it was one of the more relatively harmless ones that given a bath or a shower he wasn’t opposed to participating in. “I don’t want to fuck you,” probably not something he needed to clarify but he knew some doms who got off on making their subs ‘top’, which Stiles had never found to his liking. “I _do_ want you to fuck me.”  He grinned at that, and Derek’s eyes darkened in a way that made Stiles’s own heat.

“Good.”  Derek laid a hand lightly on Stiles’s upper arm, turning him back towards the couch.  “Let’s talk about safe words.”

“I know we’ve already established red, yellow, and green,” Derek continued once they were both back in their seats, Derek relaxing easily back against the cushions and Stiles straight-backed and trying not to fidget anxiously, “But I’d like to add another set.”  He waited for Stiles’s nod of assent and, having received it, went on.  “Numbers as well as the colours: a scale from one to ten.  ‘One’ means you barely felt it,” there was a quick, knowing grin that tugged at the corners of Derek’s mouth and Stiles had to ball his hands into quick fists to stop his fingers from drumming a desperate pattern on his legs, “And ‘ten’ that it’s too much or you’re close to saying red. I’ll stick to numbers, for the most part, during any impact play—though if you’re on the high end of the scale, say an eight or a nine more than once, I might also ask for a colour. You can say a colour at any time, even if I don’t ask.  I’d also like to include ‘break’, which will mean simply that: five or ten minutes, or however long either of us needs, to stretch or grab a glass of water or simply catch a breath, without pulling us completely out of the scene.   Do these sound like rules you can work with?”

“Yeah.”  Stiles didn’t think a conversation about safe words had ever been this much of a turn on before.  He wasn’t sure if it was Derek’s casual arrogance as he sat easily in the arm chair, or the emphasis on consent and Derek’s commitment to communication, or simply due to the fact that Derek, bearded, broody, overbearing Derek, was just that attractive to Stiles. 

“Oh, and another thing,” Derek added, meeting Stiles’s eyes with a gleam in his own, “No more ‘yeah’.  With the exception of the aforementioned safe words, I expect you to stick with ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’, and nothing else—is that clear?”

 Stiles sputtered, a disbelieving laugh rising in his throat.  “Come on, you don’t really—”

“Will that be a problem?”  Derek’s smirk was all-too knowing, and Stiles choked back his protestations with a silent and vicious curse.  Apparently Derek had noticed Stiles’s distaste for the honorific and intended to use it against him. 

Well, Stiles thought with a huff, Derek had another thing coming if he thought it’d be that easy to lead Stiles into such an obvious trap.  Quietly seething, Stiles flashed his teeth in a smile that was just slightly sharp at the edges. “Nope.  Not a problem.  No _sir_ ree.” 

“Great.”  Derek was on his feet again in one fluid motion, stepping across the carpet between them and reaching for Stiles’s now-empty glass of wine. “Shall we being?”

Stiles nodded.

 

When Derek returned from setting their wineglasses on the table he carried the leather blindfold and motioned for Stiles to stand. Stiles complied, discreetly wiping his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans before taking the blindfold when Derek held it out.

“Put it on.” 

Stiles raised the leather to his face, settling the front over his eyes and adjusting the strap until it sat comfortably above his ears.  The raised leather over his eyes allowed him to open and close them like normal, and he had a moment of disorientation when he stared into nothing but blackness with his eyes wide open.  Other blindfolds he had used in the past, usually makeshift ones out of ties or t-shirts or whatever happened to be lying around and handy, had pressed against his eyelids the entire time he wore them, forcing his eyes shut and keeping him constantly aware of what it was that had cut off his sight.  This was different.  This didn’t feel like his sight had been simply muffled, but like the sense had been taken away entirely. 

Stiles had been so caught up in his head and the newfound lack of vision that he had lost track of where Derek was. He tried to make himself stand still but couldn’t help the way he twisted his head from side to side.

“I’m right here.”  There was a hand steady on Stiles’s back, and Stiles could feel the heat of Derek’s palm through the layers of clothing between them.

That was another thing that had Stiles turned around in his head—he was still fully-clothed.  For some reason that intensified his feeling of helplessness, and, like another side of the same coin, he felt the arousal that had been simmering under his skin since he’d walked in the room spike. 

Derek used his hand to give Stiles a gentle push forward, and Stiles took one halting step and then another, barely resisting the urge to hold his hands out and grope blindly, but forcing himself to trust that Derek wouldn’t let him run into a wall.  When Stiles had taken exactly eight steps Derek’s hand left Stiles’s back and Stiles stopped.  He could hear his own heartbeat loud in his ears, and Stiles was about to ask what Derek wanted next when he felt Derek’s hands close firmly over both of his shoulders and then Derek was spinning him around.  Once, twice, three times, and again until Stiles lost track and found himself stumbling with a yelp into Derek. 

His mental image of the white room was completely disjointed.  Stiles had been in the room before, of course, and knew its basic dimensions, but he also knew Lydia liked to rearrange the furniture now and again.  Not to mention that he’d been so distracted by Derek and his toy display that Stiles hadn’t bothered to pay any real attention to the rest of the room when he’d come in.  Which he was kicking himself now for, of course, since it meant that Derek was his sole source of direction. 

“What,” Stiles began defensively as he pushed himself off of Derek’s chest, “Are we going to play Marco Polo next?”

There was silence from Derek, and then a sudden rush of air that was Stiles’s only warning before one of Derek’s hands came down hard against the meat of Stiles’s ass.  Even through his jeans Stiles could feel the sting of it and he had to bite back another surprised yelp.

“Are you already forgetting the rules, Stiles?” Derek’s voice was as carefully measured as ever, but there was a low note of warning that made Stiles want to curl up against Derek’s muscular chest and nuzzle into the hollow at Derek’s throat. 

Stiles remembered hurriedly that he wasn’t supposed to be talking, and with a rueful swallow he shook his head.  “No…” he hesitated, and could feel Derek’s expectant gaze on him, “ _sir_ ,” he finished with a slight curl of his lips.

The hand that was still on his ass paused, and then Derek’s thumb stroked lightly so that Stiles could barely feel it through the denim.  He braced himself for another hit, eyes screwed shut behind the blindfold like that would somehow help, only instead of feeling the bruising force of Derek’s hand against his ass Stiles felt Derek take a step closer to him, and then Derek’s lips were pressing softly against Stiles’s.

The kiss was absurdly gentle, Derek’s mouth sliding smooth as silk against Stiles’s and Stiles moved forward before he could help himself, his hands coming up to grip Derek’s hips and his mouth parting under Derek’s in total invitation. 

Derek’s other hand came up, tilting Stiles’s chin for a better angle as his tongue swept over Stiles’s lips, barely teasing Stiles with the taste of him.  Stiles gave an angry whine of frustration and pressed closer, but then Derek gave a soft huff of amusement and stepped back so that Stiles was once again at sea in the large room.

“Take off your clothes.”

Stiles hurried to obey, his fingers clumsy as he pulled off his flannel and then paused, not sure if he should just drop the shirt to the floor or—

“Hand it to me.”

Stiles held out the shirt and felt Derek take it. He followed with his t-shirt, jeans, socks, and then, taking a deep breath, slid his boxers down over his hips and stepped out of them.  Derek took the underwear without comment, as he had with every prior article of clothing, and then Stiles heard him move away.

A brief feeling of panic overwhelmed Stiles—he couldn’t see so he didn’t know where Derek was putting his clothes. Stiles would be—he already was—completely at Derek’s mercy, bared to any amount of scrutiny and uncomfortably vulnerable.

Of course, he could simply take of the blindfold and _look,_ but that wasn’t how this game was played. 

He felt more than heard Derek move back across the room towards him, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and then Derek’s hand slid soothingly up Stiles’s back, gentle and warm over the welts from last night.  Stiles leaned back into the touch, drunk on the feeling of fingers splayed over bruised skin. He made a noise of protest in the back of his throat when Derek’s hand left him, but then Derek’s fingers were back stroking over Stiles’s arms, learning the contours of Stiles’s body as he trailed fingers down over Stiles’s hips and traced down both legs. Derek paused for a moment, fingers circling each of Stiles’s ankles in a firm grip and Stiles’s fingers itched to reach up and pull off the blindfold, wanting nothing more than to see Derek kneeling at his feet and yet still completely in control.

“Feet apart,” Derek commanded, grip loosening so Stiles could shift his stance.  Derek tugged on Stiles’s ankle when Stiles didn’t spread his legs wide enough and Stiles wavered unsteadily for a moment before placing his hands on Derek’s shoulders and widening his stance.  The position wasn’t uncomfortable, not yet, but it left Stiles unbalanced and wholly reliant on Derek for support. 

Derek’s hands moved up the inside of Stiles’s legs and Stiles let out a shuddering breath when Derek closed a hand around Stiles’s cock.  Derek didn’t move his hand, didn’t stroke or pull or squeeze, simply held Stiles’s hard cock in his palm as his other hand stroked down over Stiles’s balls and then slipped behind them to delve into the cleft of Stiles’s ass and press lightly against Stiles’s hole. 

Stiles couldn’t help the jerk his hips gave at that, the involuntary twitch of his body trying to move back onto Derek’s finger at the same time as it tried to push forward into his fist. 

“Did you already come today?”  Derek’s mouth was close enough to Stiles that Stiles could feel the moist heat of his breath against his cock and he gave a strangled sort of sound that wasn’t quite a whine.  “Stiles,” Derek gave his ass a sharp smack, “Answer the question.”

Stiles flashed back to his shower this morning, the slick tile under his palm and the firm grip of his own hand around his cock. “Yes.  Uh, sir,” he added belatedly.  Derek smacked him again over the same spot and Stiles jumped at the sting as heat flooded his skin.

“Good.  But you can’t come now.” 

Stiles had a moment of confusion wondering what Derek meant, but then he could hear the sound of foil ripping and there was the cool touch of latex against his cock as Derek slid a condom over his length and then suddenly he was enveloped by the wet heat of Derek’s mouth and Stiles’s knees nearly gave out.

Derek didn’t give Stiles any time to adjust, didn’t ease him into the sensation, just swallowed him down as he held Stiles still with hands on his hips.  Stiles’s fingers dug into Derek’s shoulders, legs trembling as he tried to stay upright in the awkward position as Derek’s tongue swirled over the head of his cock and his lips wrapped firm and soft around him and the dizzying feeling of Derek taking him in as far as he could go.  

“Oh god,” Stiles couldn’t help the words that began to fall out of his mouth as Derek moved faster, the bob of his head making his hair brush against Stiles’s arms and adding another point of sensation that made Stiles feel like his entire body was one throbbing nerve. “Fuck, Derek, god, please, please, please, I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck—”  Stiles babbled, feeling his balls tighten and pleasure pool liquid in his belly.  He groaned as Derek gave a particularly strong suck and then the next second Derek had pulled off and Stiles would have stumbled if Derek’s hands hadn’t been steadying his hips. 

Stiles was panting, shameless and sweaty and he had been so fucking close.  “Fuck,” he managed, weakly. 

“Did I say you could speak?”  Derek rose to his feet, hand cupping Stiles’s jaw and forcing his chin up. Stiles could imagine Derek’s lips wet, swollen and slick with this own saliva and he ached to press his own against them.

“No, sir.”  The ‘sir’ stuck a bit in Stiles’s throat but he managed it, hoped he looked chagrined enough. 

“Did you speak?”  Derek reached down for Stiles’s cock and pulled the condom off, fingers wrapping firmly around Stiles’s bare skin so that Stiles arched forward helplessly.

“Yes, sir.”  It was easier, the more he said it, and he couldn’t deny that being forced to use it sent a certain thrill down his spine. 

“You’ve got such pale skin,” Derek commented in an abrupt change of topic, and Stiles frowned behind the blindfold, thrown off base. Derek’s fingers trailed up, digging deeper into Stiles’s skin, the sharp bite of his nails making Stiles shiver. Derek paused over Stiles’s nipples, thumbs brushing over them and making Stiles squirm embarrassingly as he fought not to thrust his chest into Derek’s touch.  Derek seemed to recognize Stiles’s desperation because he pinched the sensitive flesh, pulling at it with his fingers so that Stiles’s head tipped back with a wanton whine. 

Even with the blindfold on, Stiles knew how he must look.  He knew his nipples would be red and swollen, skin taut and flushed and begging for attention like his cock, hanging heavy between his legs.

Derek rubbed the flat of his palm over Stiles’s chest and Stiles whimpered, swaying forwards and into the touch. Wanting more, wanting harder, wanting to feel the rest of Derek pressed up against him. 

“There’s a table to your right.  It’s about,” Derek paused thoughtfully, fingers still strumming over Stiles’s skin in a way that had Stiles fighting to focus on Derek’s words and not the way his touch sent sparks skittering through Stiles’s system, “Ten steps.  I want you to bend over it.”  Derek stepped back and Stiles groaned in frustration.

Arms held out carefully at his sides, Stiles turned to his right and began to gingerly step forwards.  He could hear his own breath ragged in his ears and his skin felt like it was pulled taut over his entire body.  His whole world was this room—the thick carpet under his feet, the air against his skin, the sound of Derek’s belt hitting the floor behind him, and now the hard, cool edge of the table as Stiles’s outstretched fingers collided with it. 

Running his fingers over the width of it, Stiles stepped closer until he could feel the table against the tops of his thighs. Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward, his arms sliding over the surface of the table to grip the far edge.

The acrylic table top was cold underneath him, and Stiles’s nipples hardened further, making him fight not to writhe against the surface just to relieve some of the pressure.  He could feel his skin break out in goosebumps and, though he couldn’t see, he knew his breath must be leaving a fog against the glossy surface where his face was twisted to the side. 

There was a noise behind him and Stiles nearly jumped, his fingers tightening around the wood.  He felt incredibly exposed, and the idea of Derek seeing him like this, of _wanting_ him like this, made Stiles want to arch and flaunt and present himself.  The thought of doing just that had Stiles licking his lips, his feet unconsciously spreading apart.

“Good.”  A hand ran warm over Stiles’s flank and Stiles shuddered, fighting the urge to turn and bury his head in his arms.  “A little farther.”  Derek’s hand slid down his leg again, stroked down till his ankle, and then before Stiles realized what was happening Derek had wrapped one of the cuffs around Stiles’s ankle and secured it to one of the table legs.  Before Stiles could react Derek was at his other leg, pulling it just as wide and securing it to the other leg so that Stiles was spread impossibly open.

Derek crossed around to the front of the table and now it was Stiles’s wrist he grabbed, cuffing one and then the other to opposite sides of the table so that Stiles was sprawled spread-eagled over the surface. Stiles could feel his breath come faster, knew Derek could see the way he lay open-mouthed and panting with desire when all Derek had done so far was bind him down.

“You look so pretty like this,” Derek murmured, coming back to stand between Stiles’s legs and pressing forward until he covered Stiles’s body.  Stiles jerked at the sudden feel of heat against his back, and then wriggled with something akin to a purr as he realized Derek was now just as naked as Stiles and pressed flush against him.

He could feel the heat of Derek’s cock hard and eager between the cleft of his ass and Stiles rocked back into it as much as he could, wanting nothing more than to feel the thickness of it pressing into him.  Above him, Derek made a quick, indrawn hiss of air and thrust against Stiles, his fingers digging into Stiles’s hips.

“Fuck me,” Stiles breathed against the table. “Derek, fuck me.”

As quickly as it had appeared, Derek’s weight and warmth was gone from his back and Stiles made a sharp noise of disappointment.

“You’re not taking this seriously.” Disapproval was heavy in Derek’s voice, and then his hand came down heavy on Stiles’s ass and Stiles yelped in shock.  Derek hit him again, alternating blows on either side of Stiles’s ass until Stiles was writhing helplessly against the table and his hands were clenched into fists and it felt like he wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week.

“What do I want to hear, Stiles?” Derek demanded, pausing for a moment to cup his hands over Stiles’s reddened cheeks, his fingers digging into the abused flesh without mercy and making Stiles whimper in a confused mixture of agony and arousal.  “Tell me what I want to hear.”

“Sir,” Stiles broke, for the first time since he entered the room saying it without a hint of sarcasm  “Sir.”

“That’s right,” Derek’s fingers gripped Stiles’s ass harder and Stiles cried out as Derek spread him open, but then Derek’s head dipped down and his mouth closed over the reddened globe of Stiles’s ass and his tongue laved lightly over the tender skin.  Stiles’s whole body jerked, the gentle touch the opposite of what he had expected, and between his legs his cock, still heavy and swollen, throbbed. 

Then Derek pulled back and smacked him, once, twice, three times directly over his hole and Stiles gave a strangled moan, body jerking like he’d been electrified with the shock and pain of it.

“That’s for forgetting, do you understand?”

Stiles could feel tears sting his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you going to forget again?”

“No, sir.”  Stiles sagged against the table, the surface no longer cool but now warm and slick from the heat and sweat of Stiles’s body.  He could feel a faint buzz humming through his system, his rigid muscles going lax as he tumbled completely down the rabbit hole and gave himself over entirely to Derek.

It was this feeling of abject surrender that Stiles was constantly chasing.  Nothing compared to it.  It felt like fifteen orgasms all at once.  Like the best high, and the perfect level of drunk.  He felt as though he was floating away from his body and at the same time absolutely anchored to it. 

Derek had stepped away and Stiles only realized it when he returned, the light drag of leather over Stiles’s ass making Stiles squirm. 

“Colour?” Derek asked.

“Green,” Stiles managed, though it took him a second to form the word.  Derek’s hand stroked up his thigh, gentle and reassuring, and then Derek landed a blow with the flogger against Stiles’s ass.

“Number?”

The sting of it blossomed through Stiles’s body. “Four.”

Derek worked Stiles up to an eight, blows interspersed with soft touches, leaving Stiles breathless and writhing, not sure what he wanted more of, only knowing that he wanted more. 

He’d been on the edge for what felt like hours now, strung out and needy, and when Derek pressed a lube-slick finger into him, Stiles gave a loud, utterly shameless moan of pleasure. 

“Please, sir,” he begged, face flushed and eyes screwing up shamefully behind the blindfold as he tried to press himself back onto that one single digit.  “Please.” He wanted to feel Derek inside of him, wanted to feel Derek lose control.

“Not yet.”  Derek had to take his own hand and wrap it tightly around the base of his cock for a moment. The sight of Stiles spread out and begging, his ass bright cherry red and his back still purpled in places from the night before, taking Derek’s forefinger and asking for more, was almost enough to make Derek come.  He hadn’t anticipated the way Stiles’s use of the word ‘sir’, said entirely in earnest, would snap like lightning through Derek’s system.

It wasn’t a title Derek used often or was particularly attached to, but when he’d been playing with Isaac earlier he knew Isaac liked the structure of it, liked rules and formality, and he’d had no qualms about implementing that.  Seeing Stiles’s reaction though, _that_ had been amusing.  He’d known then that he wanted to make Stiles say it, make Stiles use it, simply to prove that he could. 

Derek hadn’t realized that hearing the word come out of Stiles’s mouth, wrecked and ragged, would make his blood pump faster. He wanted to make Stiles say it over and over again, wanted Stiles saying it on his knees, on his back, trying to say it around a gag, screaming it as Derek fucked into him.  

Derek added another finger, pushed it into Stiles’s body and watched Stiles arch as much as he could in the cuffs.  When Derek had picked up the lube and condom, he’d also brought over the pinwheel, and as he twisted his fingers inside of Stiles he ran the sharply pointed instrument over the sensitive skin of Stiles’s ass, biting back his own groan as the shock of pain had Stiles’s body jerking and clenching around Derek’s fingers.  Derek curled his fingers, pressing against Stiles’s prostate, and ran the pinwheel down the reddest part of Stiles’s ass.

Stiles’s mouth opened, body seizing up, and then he was coming in a long, shuddering burst. 

Derek worked Stiles through his orgasm, fingers pumping in a blunt and bruising counterpoint to the sharp bite of the pinwheel. When Stiles collapsed back onto the table Derek set the toy down and gently pulled his fingers out, leaning forward so that he was once again draped over Stiles’s body.  He could feel the heat radiating from Stiles’s skin, the rapid rise and fall of Stiles’s chest under his, and Derek pressed a kiss to the sweat-damp skin of Stiles’s neck.

“Colour?”

“Green,” Stiles’s voice was slurry and half muffled from the table.  Derek ran a hand through Stiles’s hair and found the strap of the blindfold.  Fingers gentle, he pulled it from Stiles’s head, watching as Stiles screwed his eyes shut against the sudden brightness of the white room. 

“Do you want me to fuck you now?”

Stiles’s eyes blinked open, the amber hazy as he twisted his neck to look up at Derek, heat filling his gaze as he took in what he could see of Derek’s naked body leaning over him.  “Yes, sir.”

Even though Stiles had just come, even though the aftershocks of that orgasm were still rippling through his body, he could feel his cock twitch as Derek ran his hands firmly down Stiles’s sides until he reached Stiles’s hips, his fingers circling Stiles’s waist as Derek rubbed his cock between Stiles’s splayed-open legs. 

Derek pulled away for a brief second, tore open the condom and rolled it carefully onto his cock and then he was pressing into Stiles. 

Stiles felt his mouth fall open, his toes curl where they were buried in the carpet, and he shuddered against the restraints—the cuffs on his wrists, his ankles, and Derek’s hands digging bruises in his hips. Derek pushed in, slow but unrelenting, until he was fully sheathed inside of Stiles.  He paused there, for a minute, hand stroking up Stiles’s side to slip under and twist Stiles’s nipple until Stiles gasped. Then he pulled out and shoved back in one quick movement that had Stiles groaning and trying to push his own hips back to meet Derek’s thrusts. 

Stiles had been fucked before, but Derek moving inside of him as he was held effectively immobile, bent over a table and spread open, his skin raw and bruised by Derek’s hands, was like nothing he’d ever experienced before.  Stiles felt flayed open, and the drag of Derek’s cock inside of him had pleasure scrambling through his system.  He felt like he was flying apart, but every time Derek’s hips slammed against him he was pulled back into himself.  He could feel the flex of Derek’s muscles against him, taste Derek’s own desperation in the air and feel it in the way Derek’s fingers flexed helplessly against Stiles’s ribs.

Stiles could feel a second orgasm building as his cock strained between his legs, his muscles beginning to shudder and clench as the pleasure became too much.  Even through the condom the heat of Derek’s cock was overwhelming, the feeling of him driving into Stiles over and over again had Stiles making incoherent whimpers. 

“Fuck,” Derek bit off, the curse torn from his throat. “I’m gonna come.” His hips picked up speed, slamming into Stiles so that the slap of flesh-on-flesh filled the room.

“Yes, please, god, sir, Derek, _please_ ,” Stiles strained in his bonds, shoving himself back against Derek’s thrusts as he felt himself come again, untouched, for the second time that night. His body clenching around Derek was enough to send the older man over the edge and with something that sounded close to a growl Derek came, pounding relentlessly into Stiles until he collapsed, suddenly boneless, over his back.

They lay there for a long moment, silent save for the sound of their panting breaths and pounding hearts.  Then Derek, with a noise that sounded suspiciously like regret, peeled himself off of Stiles’s naked back and bent to uncuff Stiles’s feet.

Stiles watched as Derek came around to free his wrists, wincing as he stretched his limbs.  Gingerly, Stiles eased himself up from the table. He didn’t quite trust himself to stand, still feeling wobbly and not at all steady after the toll the evening had taken on his body, so he leaned heavily against the surface of the table as he tried to get his feet back under him.

“C’mere,” Derek’s arm was suddenly around his waist and he took Stiles’s weight easily, even though Stiles suspected from the way his pupils were still blown and the slight tremble in his fingers that he too was feeling the aftershocks of a really great orgasm.  Derek led Stiles towards the bed in the far corner of the room, easing Stiles down onto the mattress and disappearing.

Stiles halfheartedly tried to trace Derek’s progress but the mattress was so soft beneath him and the sheets so cool that he burrowed his head in the pillow and let his eyes fall closed.  In a matter of minutes, Derek was back at his side, the bed dipping under his weight as he sat beside Stiles.  Stiles opened his eyes, confused for a minute when there was nothing but darkness, before realizing that Derek had turned off the lights while he was up. 

“Here,” Derek pressed something into Stiles’s hand and Stiles’s fingers wrapped reflexively around the plastic of a water bottle, bringing it gratefully to his lips and taking a long swallow. He meant to save some for Derek, he really did, but before Stiles realized he had drank the entire thing.

“Sorry,” he croaked, giving Derek’s wrist a squeeze as he handed the bottle back.

“It’s okay,” Stiles still couldn’t see, but he could hear the grin in Derek’s voice.  “I brought two.”  Stiles heard him twist the cap off a second bottle, and then heard Derek take a drink before offering it to Stiles.  Stiles took a couple grateful sips and then handed it back to Derek, who finished it off in a matter of minutes.

“Do you want to stay here?” Derek asked, leaning down to put the bottle on the floor before running a gentle hand over Stiles’s back.

“Yes, si—yes,” Stiles corrected, rolling his eyes at his own misstep.  He could feel Derek’s suppressed chuckle beside him, and gave the man a soft shove.

“Do you want me to stay, too?”

“Yes.  Please.”  Stiles reached over and found Derek’s hand, twining his fingers with Derek’s. He was exhausted, barely able to keep his eyelids open now that the white room was so blissfully dark. His body felt impossibly heavy against the mattress, and all he wanted to do was feel Derek’s arms curl warmly around him as the two of them sunk into sleep.  “If you want,” he added, belatedly.

“I want,” Derek assured him, and eased himself over Stiles so that he could curl around the younger man’s body.  Stiles gave a slight hiss as Derek pressed against his ass, the skin still sore from the earlier flogging, but Derek ran his thumb over Stiles’s jaw, turning his head so that Derek could press a soft kiss against Stiles’s lips, and Stiles felt something inside his chest twist.

He parted his lips, darted his tongue out to glide along Derek’s, and let himself fall into the sweetness of the kiss. It was light, and surprisingly chaste, an odd counterpoint to the rough and entirely non-vanilla sex the two of them had just engaged in. 

When Derek finally broke the kiss the two of them were breathless, Stiles’s lips tingling from the contact, and he snuggled back against Derek as Derek’s arms wrapped around Stiles’s front and drew him close. 

“Thank you,” Derek murmured against Stiles’s ear, his voice heavy with sleep.

“My pleasure. _Sir_ ,” Stiles replied with an ironic twist, snorting as Derek bit reprovingly at his earlobe. Stiles was about to come up with something astoundingly witty as a retort, but before he knew it he was fast asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

MONDAY

 

When Derek woke up, Stiles was gone, and he felt a sharp pang at Stiles’s absence.  Stupid, he knew, considering he’d only known Stiles for a handful of days, if that.  He wanted to wake up beside him, though.  He wanted to trace his hand over the marks he’d left on Stiles’s back, wanted to dip a finger or two inside of him and see if he was still open from the night before. He wanted to swallow the noises Stiles made as Derek made him come with his hands pressing into old bruises.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Derek sat up and tried to remember where he’d left his clothes. 

“Here you go, big guy,” Stiles appeared in the doorway, grinning cheekily.  “I brought coffee.”

“I thought you left,” Derek said, dumbly, watching Stiles cross the room towards him, wearing nothing but his boxers.

“I’d be eight kinds of idiot if I left someone who looks like you in bed alone,” Stiles replied with a wink, handing Derek a mug and bending down to press a swift kiss to Derek’s startled lips.

“I—um—thank you,” Derek said, flustered.

“No, no, thank _you_ ,” Stiles insisted, dropping down to the bed beside Derek and nearly making the older man spill his coffee. “I’ve never slept better than last night, ever.” 

“You’re welcome?” Derek hedged.  Stiles laughed and clinked their mugs together before taking a long drink.

“Seriously,” Stiles continued as he flopped back against the mattress, careful to keep his mug steady and only wincing slightly at the soreness in his ass.  “Never better.  I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re mine now.  I call dibs.  All the dibs. The most serious of dibs. I’m going to have to fly you out to L.A. at least every other weekend.  Possibly every weekend.  You okay with that?”

“Uh…”

“Great.  I’ll have my people talk to your people.”  Stiles grinned at Derek’s puzzled look, but then rolled his eyes and became more serious.  “I’m kidding, honest.  But… I’d like to see you again.  I’d like to do this,” he gave a gesture that somehow encompassed the whole room and Stiles’s bruises and Derek’s body in one go, “Again.” 

If Stiles was honest, he never wanted to do anything but Derek for the rest of his life, but he figured he’d better ease into the whole marriage proposal thing.  Maybe talk Derek into letting him take him out for a couple dates or two, a few weekend sleep-overs in L.A. or Beacon Hills.  A week-long getaway to Montreal, or maybe Napa. He’d introduce Derek to his dad and Melissa, meet whoever it was Derek called family, have big, loud, messy sex in all kinds of interesting and creative places, and then once he’d lulled Derek into a false sense of security Stiles would propose in some kind of grand, romantic gesture that would probably involve at least one air balloon.

“Yeah,” Derek agreed, eyeballing Stiles over the rim of his mug.  “I would too.” He figured he could see Stiles at least once over Christmas before Stiles had to go back to work. If Derek rearranged his work schedule he’d be able to get a few days off in February and could definitely drive out to L.A..  Then, maybe, they could take a weekend to visit Cora in New York.  They could take off for a week or two in the spring, go down to New Orleans, or just hole up in Derek’s loft in Beacon Hills and see how many different ways they could get each other off.  Derek could quietly start developing a relationship with the Sheriff, get Scott to help him learn all the things that Stiles liked, and then after a year or two, a respectable amount of time, had passed, he could ask Allison and Lydia to help him go ring shopping.  He was thinking something simple, an unadorned band that wouldn’t detract from Stiles’s long, clever fingers. 

“So I can get your number?” Stiles asked, head charmingly tilted to the side.

Derek laughed and bent forward to slant his lips over Stiles’s.  “I think that’s something you already have,” he admitted against Stiles’s mouth, and let Stiles pull him back into the bed. 

He wondered if a vanilla wedding cake would be out of the question.

  
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